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LAVENGRO 


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By GEORGE BORROW 


A NEW EDITION 

CONTAINING THE UNALTERED TEXT OF THE ORIGINAL ISSUE 
SOME SUPPRESSED EPISODES NOW PRINTED FOR THE 
FIRST TIME ; MS. VARIORUM, VOCABULARY AND NOTES 

BY THE AUTHOR OF 

THE LIFE OF GEORGE BORROW 


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LONDON: JOHN MURRAY 
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[Original Title Page.] 


LA VENGRO; 


THE SCHOLiR-THB GYPSY— THE PRIEST. 


By GEORGE BORROW, 

AUTHOR OF “THE BIBLE IN SPAIN ” AND “THE GYPSIES OF SPAIN ” 


IN THREE VOLUMES— VOL. I. 


LONDON: 

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET. 


1851. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

(1851.) 

In compliance with the advice of certain friends who are 
desirous that it may not be supposed that the following 
work has been written expressly for the present times, the 
author begs leave to state that it was planned in the year 
1842, and all the characters sketched before the conclusion 
of the year 1843. The contents of the volumes here offered 
to the public have, with the exception of the Preface, 
existed in manuscript for a very considerable time. 


PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

(1851.) 

In the following pages I have endeavoured to describe a 
dream, partly of study, partly of adventure, in which will 
be found copious notices of books, and many descriptions 
of life and manners, some in a very unusual form. 

The scenes of action lie in the British Islands. Pray 
be not displeased, gentle reader, if perchance thou hast 
imagined that I was about to conduct thee to distant 
lands, and didst promise thyself much instruction and 
entertainment from what I might tell thee of them. I do 
assure thee that thou hast no reason to be displeased, 
inasmuch as there are no countries in the world less known 
by the British than these selfsame British Islands, or where 
more strange things are every day occurring, whether in 
road or street, house or dingle. 

The time embraces nearly the first quarter of the 
present century. This information, again, may perhaps be 
anything but agreeable to thee ; it is a long time to revert 
to — but fret not thyself, many matters which at present 
much occupy the public mind originated in some degree 
towards the latter end of that period, and some of them 
will be treated of. 

The principal actors in this dream, or drama, are, as 
you will have gathered from the title-page, a Scholar, a 
Gypsy, and a Priest. Should you imagine that these three 
form one, permit me to assure you that you are very much 
mistaken. Should there be something of the Gypsy 
manifest in the Scholar, there is certainly nothing of the 
Priest. With respect to the Gypsy — decidedly the most 
entertaining character of the three — there is certainly no- 
thing of the Scholar or the Priest in him ; and as for the 


PREFACE OF 1851. 


viii 


Priest, though there may be something in him both of 
scholarship and gypsyism, neither the Scholar nor the 
Gypsy would feel at all flattered by being confounded 
with him. 

Many characters which may be called subordinate will 
be found, and it is probable that some of these characters 
will afford much more interest to the reader than those 
styled the principal. The favourites with the writer are a 
brave old soldier and his helpmate, an ancient gentlewoman 
who sold apples, and a strange kind of wandering man and 
his wife. 

Amongst the many things attempted in this book is 
the encouragement of charity, and free and genial manners, 
and the exposure of humbug, of which there are various 
kinds, but of which the most perfidious, the most debasing, 
and the most cruel, is the humbug of the Priest. 

Yet let no one think that irreligion is advocated in this 
book. With respect to religious tenets, I wish to observe 
that I am a member of the Church of England, into whose 
communion I was baptised, and to which my forefathers 
belonged. Its being the religion in which I was baptised, 
and of my forefathers, would be a strong inducement to me 
to cling to it ; for I do not happen to be one of those 
choice spirits “ who turn from their banner when the battle 
bears strongly against it, and go over to the enemy,” and 
who receive at first a hug and a “ viva,” and in the sequel 
contempt and spittle in the face ; but my chief reason for 
belonging to it is, because, of all Churches calling them- 
selves Christian ones, I believe there is none so good, so 
well founded upon Scripture, or whose ministers are, upon 
the whole, so exemplary in their lives and conversation, so 
well read in the Book from which they preach, or so versed 
in general learning, so useful in their immediate neighbour- 
hoods, or so unwilling to persecute people of other 
denominations for* matters of doctrine. 

In the communion of this Church, and with the religious 
consolation of its ministers, I wish and hope to live and die, 
and in its and their defence will at all times be ready, if 
required, to speak, though humbly, and to fight, though 
feebly, against enemies, whether carnal or spiritual. 


PREFACE OF 1851. 


IX 


And is there no priestcraft in the Church of England ? 
There is certainly, or rather there was, a modicum of priest- 
craft in the Church of England, but I have generally found 
that those who are most vehement against the Church of 
England are chiefly dissatisfied with her because there is 
only a modicum of that article in her. Were she stuffed 
to the very cupola with it, like a certain other Church, 
they would have much less to say against the Church of 
England. 

By the other Church I mean Rome. Its system was 
once prevalent in England, and, during the period that it 
prevailed there, was more prolific of debasement and crime 
than all other causes united. The people and the govern- 
ment at last becoming enlightened by means of the 
Scripture, spurned it from the island with disgust and 
horror, the land instantly after its disappearance becoming 
a fair field, in which arts, sciences, and all the amiable 
virtues flourished, instead of being a pestilent marsh where 
swine-like ignorance wallowed, and artful hypocrites, like 
so many wills-o’-the-wisp, played antic gambols about, 
around and above debased humanity. 

But Popery still wished to play her old part, to regain 
her lost dominion, to reconvert the smiling land into the 
pestilential morass, where she could play again her old 
antics. From the period of the Reformation in England 
up to the present time, she has kept her emissaries here — 
individuals contemptible in intellect, it is true, but cat-like 
and gliding, who, at her bidding, have endeavoured, as 
much as in their power has lain, to damp and stifle every 
genial, honest, loyal and independent thought, and to 
reduce minds to such a state of dotage as would enable 
their old Popish mother to do what she pleased with them. 

And in every country, however enlightened, there are 
always minds inclined to grovelling superstition — minds 
fond of eating dust and swallowing clay— minds never at 
rest, save when prostrate before some fellow in a surplice ; 
and these Popish emissaries found always some weak 
enough to bow down before them, astounded by their 
dreadful denunciations of eternal woe and damnation to 
any who should refuse to believe their Romania ; but they 




PREFACE OF 185 1. 


played a poor game — the law protected the servants of 
Scripture, and the priest with his beads seldom ventured 
to approach any but the remnant of those of the eikono- 
latry — representatives of worm-eaten houses, their debased 
dependants and a few poor crazy creatures among the 
middle classes — he played a poor game, and the labour was 
about to prove almost entirely in vain, when the English 
Legislature, in compassion or contempt, or, yet more pro- 
bably, influenced by that spirit of toleration and kindness 
which is so mixed up with Protestantism, removed almost 
entirely the disabilities under which Popery laboured, and 
enabled it to raise its head and to speak out almost without 
fear. 

And it did raise its head, and, though it spoke with 
some little fear at first, soon discarded every relic of it ; 
went about the land uttering its damnation cry, gathering 
around it — and for doing so many thanks to it — the 
favourers of priestcraft who lurked within the walls of the 
Church of England ; frightening with the loudness of its 
voice the weak, the timid and the ailing ; perpetrating, 
whenever it had an opportunity, that species of crime to 
which it has ever been most partial — deathbed robbery ; 
for as it is cruel, so is it dastardly. Yes, it went on enlist- 
ing, plundering and uttering its terrible threats till — till it 
became, as it always does when left to itself, a fool, a very 
fool. Its plunderings might have been overlooked, and so 
might its insolence, had it been common insolence, but 
it — , and then the roar of indignation which arose from 
outraged England against the viper, the frozen viper which 
it had permitted to warm itself upon its bosom. 

But thanks, Popery, you have done all that the friends 
of enlightenment and religious liberty could wish ; but if 
ever there were a set of foolish ones to be found under 
Heaven, surely it is the priestly rabble who came over from 
Rome to direct the grand movement, so long in its getting 
up. 

But now again the damnation cry is withdrawn, there is 
a subdued meekness in your demeanour, you are now once 
more harmless as a lamb. Well, we shall see how the trick 
— “ the old trick” — will serve you. 


PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

(1872.) 

Lavengro made its first appearance more than one and 
twenty years ago. It was treated in anything but a 
courteous manner. Indeed, abuse ran riot, and many said 
that the book was killed. If by killed was meant knocked 
down and stunned, which is the Irish acceptation of the 
word — there is a great deal about Ireland in the book— 
they were right enough. It was not dead, however, oh dear 
no ! as is tolerably well shown by the present edition, which 
has been long called for. 

The chief assailants of the book were the friends of 
Popery in England. They were enraged because the 
author stood up for the religion of his fathers, his country, 
and the Bible, against the mythology of a foreign priest. 
As for the Pope — but the Pope has of late had his mis- 
fortunes, so no harsh language. To another subject! 
From the Pope to the Gypsies ! From the Roman Pontiff 
to the Romany Chals ! 

A very remarkable set of people are the Gypsies ; 
frequent mention is made of them in Lavengro , and from 
their peculiar language the word “Lavengro” is taken. 
They first attracted notice in Germany, where they ap- 
peared in immense numbers in the early part of the fifteenth 
century, a period fraught with extraordinary events : the 
coming of the Black Death ; the fortunes and misfortunes 
of the Emperor Sigismund ; the quarrels of the Three 
Popes — the idea of three Popes at one time ! — the burning 
alive of John Huss ; the advance of the Crescent, and the 
battle of Agincourt. They were of dark complexion, some 
of them of nearly negro blackness, and spoke a language 
of their own, though many could converse in German and 


PREFACE OF 1872. 


xii 


other tongues. They called themselves Zingary and 
Romany Chals, and the account they gave of themselves 
was that they were from Lower Egypt, and were doing 
penance, by a seven years’ wandering, for the sin of their 
forefathers, who of old had refused hospitality to the Virgin 
and Child. They did not speak truth, however ; the name 
they bore, Zingary, and which, slightly modified, is still 
borne by their descendants in various countries, shows that 
they were not from Egypt, but from a much more distant 
land, Hindostan ; for Zingaro is Sanscrit, and signifies 
a man of mixed race, a mongrel ; whilst their conduct was 
evidently not that of people engaged in expiatory pilgrim- 
age ; for the women told the kosko bokht, the good luck, 
the buena ventura; kaured, that is, filched money and 
valuables from shop-boards and counters by a curious 
motion of the hands, and poisoned pigs and hogs by means 
of a certain drug, and then begged, and generally obtained, 
the carcases, which cut up served their families for food ; 
the children begged and stole ; whilst the men, who it is 
true professed horse-clipping, farriery and fiddling, not 
unfrequently knocked down travellers and plundered them. 
The hand of justice of course soon fell heavily upon them ; 
men of Egypt, as they were called, were seized, hung, or 
maimed ; women scourged or branded ; children whipped ; 
but no severity appeared to have any effect upon the 
Zingary ; wherever they went (and they soon found their 
way to almost every country in Europe), they adhered to 
their evil practices. Before the expiration of the fifteenth 
century bands of them appeared in England with their 
horses, donkeys and tilted carts. How did they contrive 
to cross the sea with their carts and other property ? By 
means very easy to people with money in their pockets, 
which the Gypsies always have, by paying for their pas- 
sage ; just as the Hungarian tribe did, who a few years ago 
came to England with their horses and vehicles, and who, 
whilst encamping with their English brethren in the love- 
liest of all forests, Epping Wesh, exclaimed “ Sore si mensar 
si men 

The meaning of Zingary, one of the names by which 

* We are all relations, all alike ; all who are with us are ourselves. 


PREFACE OF 1872. 


xiii 


the pseudo-penitents from Lower Egypt called themselves, 
has been given above. Now for that of the other, Romany 
Chals, a name in which the English Gypsies delight, who 
have entirely dropped that of Zingary. The meaning of 
Romany Chals is lads of Rome or Rama ; Romany signify- 
ing that which belongs to Rama or Rome, and Chal a son 
or lad, being a Zingaric word connected with the Shilo of 
Scripture, the meaning of which may be found in the 
Lexicon of the brave old Westphalian Hebraist, Johannes 
Buxtorf . 1 

The Gypsies of England, the Zigany, Zigeuner, and 
other tribes of the Continent, descendants of the old 
Zingary and Romany Chals, retain many of the charac- 
teristics of their forefathers, and, though differing from 
each other in some respects, resemble each other in many. 
They are much alike in hue and feature ; speak amongst 
themselves much the same tongue ; exercise much the same 
trades, and are addicted to the same evil practices. There 
is a little English Gypsy gillie, or song, of which the 
following quatrain is a translation, containing four queries, 
to all of which the English Romano might respond by 
Ava, and the foreign Chal by the same affirmative to the 
three first, if not to the last : — 

Can you speak the Roman tongue ? 

Can you make the fiddle ring ? 

Can you poison a jolly hog ? 

And split the stick for the linen string ? 

So much for the Gypsies. There are many other 
things in the book to which perhaps the writer ought to 
advert ; but he is weary, and, moreover, is afraid of weary- 
ing others. He will, therefore, merely add that every book 
must eventually stand or fall by its deserts ; that praise, 
however abundant, will not keep a bad book alive for any 
considerable time, nor abuse, however virulent, a good one 
for ever in the dust ; and he thinks himself justified in 
saying, that were there not some good in Lavengro , it 
would not again be raising its head, notwithstanding all 
it underwent one and twenty years ago. 

1 Chal is simply the contraction of chaval , a form cognate with chavord the 
diminutive of chavd , a lad. Chaval is still common in Spain, both among the 
Gypsies and the lower orders" of Spaniards. -*>-E d. 
















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CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

Birth — My Father — Tamerlane — Ben Brain — French Protestants — East 
Anglia — Sorrow and Troubles — True Peace — A Beautiful Child— Foreign 
Grave — Mirrors — Alpine Country — Emblems — Slow of Speech — The Jew 
— Strange Gestures i 


CHAPTER II. 

Barracks and Lodgings — A Camp — The Viper — A Delicate Child — Black- 
berry Time — Meum and Tuum — Hythe — The Golgotha — Daneman's 
Skull — Superhuman Stature — Stirring Times — The Sea-Bord . . 9 

CHAPTER III. 

Pretty D . . . — The Venerable Church— The Stricken Heart— Dormant 
Energies — The Small Packet — Nerves — The Books — A Picture — Moun- 
tain-like Billows — The Foot-Print — Spirit of De Foe — Reasoning Powers 
—Terrors of God — Heads of the Dragons — High-Church Clerk — A 
Journey — The Drowned Country 15 

CHAPTER IV. 

Norman Cross — Wide Expanse — Vive l’Empereur — Unpruned Woods — Man 
with the Bag — Froth and Conceit — I beg your Pardon— Growing Timid 
— About Three o’Clock — Taking One’s Ease — Cheek on the Ground — 

King of the Vipers — French King — Frenchmen and Water ... 23 

CHAPTER V. 

The Tent — Man and Woman — Dark and Swarthy — Manner of Speaking — 

Bad Money — Transfixed — Faltering Tone — Little Basket — High Opinion 
— Plenty of Good — Keeping Guard — Tilted Cart — Rubricals — Jasper — 

The Right Sort — The Horseman of the Lane — Johh Newton — The Alarm 
— Gentle Brothers 29 


CHAPTER VI. 

Three Years — Lilly’s Grammar — Proficiency — Ignorant of Figures — The 
School Bell — Order of Succession— Persecution — What are we to do ? — 
Northward — A Goodly Scene — Haunted Ground — Feats of Chivalry — 
Rivers — Over the Brig 38 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Castle — A Father’s Inquiries — Scotch Language — A Determination— Bui 
hin Digri — Good Scotchman — Difference of Races — Ne’er a Haggis — 
Pugnacious People — What are ye, Man? — The Nor Loch — Gestures 
Wild — The Bicker — New Town Champion — Wild Looking Figure — 
Headlong 45 


XVI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Expert Climbers — The Crags— Something Red— The Horrible Edge— David 
Haggart — Fine Materials— The Greatest Victory — Extraordinary Robber 
— The Ruling Passion 


CHAPTER IX. 

Napoleon — The Storm — The Cove — Up the Country — The Trembling Hand 
— Irish — Tough Battle — Tipperary Hills — Elegant Lodgings — A Speech 
— Fair Specimen — Orangemen 

CHAPTER X. 

Protestant Young Gentlemen — The Greek Letters — Open Chimney — Murtagh 
— Paris and Salamanca — Nothing to Do — To Whit, to Whoo ! — The 
Pack of Cards — Before Christmas 

CHAPTER XI. 

Templemore — Devil’s Mountain — No Companion— Force of Circumstance — 
Way of the World — Ruined Castle — Grim and Desolate — The Donjon — 
Old Woman — My own House 

CHAPTER XII. 

A Visit — Figure of a Man — The Dog of Peace — The Raw Wound— The 
Guard-Room — Boy Soldier — Person in Authority — Never Solitary — 
Clergyman and Family — Still Hunting — Fairy Man — Near Sunset — 
Bagg — Left-Handed Hitter — Irish and Supernatural — At Swanton 
Morley 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Groom and Cob— Strength and Symmetry — Where’s the Saddle ? — The First 
Ride — No more Fatigue — Love for Horses — Pursuit of Words — Philo- 
logist and Pegasus — The Smith — What more, Agrah ? — Sassanach Ten 
Pence ............. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A fine old City — Norman Master-Work — Lollards’ Hole— Good Blood — The 
Spaniard’s Sword — Old Retired Officer — Writing to a Duke — God Help 
the Child — Nothing like Jacob — Irish Brigades — Old Sergeant Meredith 
— I have been Young— Idleness— Only Course Open — The Bookstall — 
A Portrait — A Banished Priest 

CHAPTER XV. 

Monsieur Dante — Condemned Musket — Sporting — Sweet Rivulet — The Earl’s 
Home — The Pool — The Sonorous Voice — What dost thou Read ? — Man 
of Peace — Zohar and Mishna — Money Changers 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Fair of Horses — Looks of Respect — The Fast Trotter — Pair of Eyes — Strange 
Men — Jasper, Your Pal — Force of Blood — Young Lady with Diamonds 
— Not quite so Beautiful 


PAGE 

52 


56 


62 


66 


7i 


78 


84 


9i 


97 


CONTENTS. 


XVII 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The Tents — Pleasant Discourse — I am Pharaoh — Shifting for One’s Self — 
Horse-Shoes — This is Wonderful — Bless your Wisdom — A Pretty 
Manoeuvre — 111 Day to the Romans — My Name is Herne — Singular 
People — An Original Speech — Word Master — Speaking Romanly 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

What Profession ? — Not Fitted for a Churchman — Erratic Course — The Bitter 
Draught— Principle of Woe — Thou Wouldst be Joyous — What Ails You? 
— Poor Child of Clay 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Agreeable Delusions — Youth — A Profession — Ab Gwilym — Glorious English 
Law — There They Pass — My Dear Old Master — The Deal Desk — 
Language of the Tents — Where is Morfydd? — Go To — Only Once — 
[Physiognomy — The Poet Parkinson] 

CHAPTER XX. 

Silver Grey— Good Word for Everybody— A Remarkable Youth— Clients— 
Grades in Society — The Archdeacon — [The Wake of Freya] — Reading 
the Bible 


CHAPTER XXI. 

The Eldest Son — Saying of Wild Finland — The Critical Time — Vaunting 
p 0 ll s _One Thing Wanted— A Father’s Blessing— Miracle of Art— The 
Pope’s House— Young Enthusiast— Pictures of England— Persist and 
Wrestle — The Little Dark Man 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Desire tor Novelty — Lives of the Lawless— Countenances— Old Yeoman and 
Dame— We Live Near the Sea — Uncouth-looking Volume — The Other 
Condition — Draoitheac — A Dilemma — The Antinomian — Lodowick 
Muggleton— Almost Blind— Anders Vedel 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

The Two Individuals— The Long Pipe— The Germans— Wert her— The 
Female Quaker— Suicide— Gibbon— Jesus of Bethlehem— Fill Your Glass 
—Shakespeare— English at Minden— Melancholy Swayne Vonved— The 
Fifth Dinner— Strange Doctrines— Are You Happy ?— Improve Yourself 
in German 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The Alehouse Keeper— Compassion for the Rich— Old English Gentleman- 
How is this?— Madeira— The Greek Parr— Twenty Languages— Whiter’s 
Health— About the Fight— A Sporting Gentleman— The Flattened Nose 
—Lend us that Pightle— The Surly Nod 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Doubts— Wise King of Jerusalem— Let Me See— A Thousand Years— 
Nothing New— The Crowd— The Hymn— Faith— Charles Wesley— 
There He Stood— Farewell, Brother— Death— Sun, Moon and Stars— 
Wind on the Heath 

b 


PAGE 

102 


IO9 


113 


126 


134 


139 


146 


153 


159 


XV111 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

The Flower of the Grass — Days of Pugilism — The Rendezvous — Jews — 
Bruisers of England— Winter, Spring — Well-earned Bays — The Fight — 
Huge Black Cloud — Frame of Adamant — The Storm — Dukkeripens — 
The Barouche — The Rain-Gushes 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

My Father — Premature Decay — The Easy Chair — A Few Questions — So You 
Told Me — A Difficult Language — They Call it Haik — Misused Op- 
portunities — Saul — Want of Candour — Don’t Weep — Heaven Forgive 
Me— Dated from Paris — I Wish He Were Here — A Father’s Remini- 
scences — Farewell to Vanities 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

My Brother’s Arrival — The Interview — Night — A Dying Father — Christ 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

The Greeting — Queer Figure — Cheer Up — The Cheerful Fire — It Will Do — 
The Sally Forth — Trepidation — Let Him Come in . 

CHAPTER XXX. 

The Sinister Glance — Excellent Correspondent — Quite Original — My System 
— A Losing Trade — Merit — Starting a Review — What Have You Got ? — 
Stop ! — Dairyman' s Daughter— Oxford Principles — More Conversation 
— How is This ? 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

The Walk — London’s Cheape — Street of the Lombards — Strange Bridge — 
Main Arch — The Roaring Gulf — The Boat — Cly-Faking — A Comfort — 
The Book — The Blessed Woman — No Trap 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

The Tanner — [Cromwell — The Dairyman' s Daughter ] — The Hotel — Drink- 
ing Claret — London Journal — New Field — Commonplaceness — The 
Three Individuals — Botheration — Frank and Ardent .... 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Dine with the Publisher — Religions — No Animal Food — Unprofitable Dis- 
cussions — Principles of Criticism — The Book Market — Newgate laves — 
Goethe a Drug — German Acquirements — Moral Dignity 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

The Two Volumes — A Young Author — Intended Editor — Quintilian — Loose 
Money 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Francis Ardry — Certain Sharpers — Brave and Eloquent — Opposites — Flinging 
the Bones— Strange Places — Dog Fighting — Learning and Letters — 
Batch of Dogs — Redoubled Application . ... 


PAGE 

1 66 

172 

179 

181 

185 

191 

196 

202 

207 

209 


CONTENTS * 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Occupations — Traduttore Traditore — Ode to the Mist — Apple and Pear — 
Reviewing — Current Literature— Oxford-like Manner — A Plain Story — 
Ill-regulated Mind — Unsnuffed Candle — Strange Dreams 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

My Brother — Fits of Crying — Mayor Elect — The Committee — The Norman 
Arch — A Word of Greek — Church and State — At My Own Expense — If 
You Please 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Painter of the Heroic — I’ll Go! — A Modest Peep — Who is This? — A 
Capital Pharaoh — Disproportionably Short — Imaginary Picture — 
English Figures 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

No Authority Whatever — Interference — Wondrous Farrago— Brandt and 
Struensee — What a Life ! — The Hearse — Mortal Relics — Great Poet- 
Fashion and Fame — What a Difference !— | Portobello] .... 

CHAPTER XL. 

London Bridge — Why Not? — Every Heart has its Bitters — Wicked Boys — 
Give me my Book — Such a Fright — Honour Bright .... 

CHAPTER XLL. 

Decease of the Review — Homer Himself-^ Bread and Cheese — Finger and 
Thumb — Impossible to Find — Something Grand — Universal Mixture — 
Some Other Publisher 


CHAPTER X L1I. 

Francis Ardry — That Won’t do, Sir — Observe my Gestures — I Think You 
Improve — Better than Politics — Delightful Young Frenchwoman — A 
Burning Shame — Magnificent Impudence — Paunch — Voltaire — Lump of 
Sugar 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

Progress— Glorious John — Utterly Unintelligible — What a Difference ! 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

The Old Spot— A Long History — Thou Shalt Not Steal — No Harm— Educa- 
tion — Necessity — Foam on Your Lip — Apples and Pears — What Will 
You Read — Metaphor -The Fur Cap — I Don’t Know Him . 

CHAPTER XLV. 

Bought and Exchanged — Quite. Empty — A New Firm— Bibles — Countenance 
of a Lion — Clap of Thunder — A Truce with This — I Have Lost It — 
Clearly a Right— Goddess of the Mint 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

The Pickpocket— Strange Rencounter— Drag Him Along— A Great Service 
— Things of Importance— Philological Matters— Mother of Languages— 
Zhats 


xix 

PAGE 

214 

219 

223 

227 

240 

244 

248 

253 

255 

260 

265 


CONTENTS . 


xx 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

New Acquaintance — Wired Cases — Bread and Wine — Armenian Colonies — 
Learning Without Money — What a Language— The Tide — Your Foible 
— Learning of the Haiks— Old Proverb — Pressing Invitation . 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

What to do — Strong Enough — Fame and Profit — Alliterative Euphony — 
Excellent Fellow — Listen to Me — A Plan — Bagnigge Wells . 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

Singular Personage — A Large Sum — Papa of Rome — We are Christians — 
Degenerate Armenians — Roots of Ararat — Regular Features . 

CHAPTER L. 

Wish Fulfilled— Extraordinary Figure — Bueno — Noah — The Two Faces — I 
Don’t Blame Him— Too Fond of Money — Were I an Armenian 

CHAPTER LI. 

The One Half-Crown — Merit in Patience — Cementer of Friendship— Dread- 
ful Perplexity — The Usual Guttural — Armenian Letters — Much Indebted 
to You — Pure Helplessness — Dumb People 

CHAPTER LII. 

Kind of Stupor — Peace of God — Divine Hand — Farewell, Child — The Fair— 
Massive Edifice— Battered Tars — Lost ! Lost ! — Good Day, Gentlemen 

CHAPTER LIII. 

Singular Table — No Money — Out of Employ — My Bonnet — We of the 
Thimble — Good Wages — Wisely Resolved — Strangest Way in the World 
— Fat Gentleman — Not Such Another — First Edition — Not Very Fast — 
Won’t Close — Avella Gorgio— Alarmed Look . 

CHAPTER LIV. 

Mr. Petulengro — Rommany Rye — Lil Writers — One’s Own Horn — Lawfully 
Earnt Money— The Wooded Hill— A Great Favourite— The Shop 
Window — Much Wanted 


CHAPTER LV. 

Bread and Water — Fair Play — Fashionable Life — Colonel B Joseph Sell 

—The Kindly Glow — Easiest Manner Imaginable 

CHAPTER LVI. 

Considerably Sobered — Power of Writing — The Tempter — Hungry Talent — 
Work Concluded 


CHAPTER LVII. 

Nervous Look — The Bookseller’s Wife — The Last Stake — Terms — God 
Forbid! — Will You Come to Tea? — A Light Heart . 


PAGE 

269 

274 

278 

281 

284 

288 

292 

299 

303 

306 

309 


CONTENTS. 


■ xxi 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

Indisposition— A Resolution— Poor Equivalents— The Piece of Gold— Flash- 
ing Eyes — How Beautiful ! — Bonjour, Monsieur 

CHAPTER LIX. 

The Milestone — The Meditation — Want to Get Up? — The Off-hand Leader 
— Sixteen Shillings — The Near-hand Wheeler — All Right 

CHAPTER LX. 

The Still Hour — A Thrill — The Wondrous Circle — The Shepherd — Heaps 
and Barrows — What do you Mean? — Milk of the Plains — Hengist 
spared it — No Presents 


CHAPTER LXI. 

The River — Arid Downs — A Prospect 

CHAPTER LXII. 

The Hostelry — Life Uncertain — Open Countenance — The Grand Point — 
Thank you, Master — A Hard Mother— Poor Dear ! — Considerable Odds 
— The Better Country — English Fashion — Landlord-looking Person 

CHAPTER LXIII. 

Primitive Habits — Rosy- faced Damsel — A Pleasant Moment — Suit of Black 
— The Furtive Glance — The Mighty Round — Degenerate Times — The 
Newspaper — The Evil Chance — I Congratulate You .... 

CHAPTER LXIV. 

New Acquaintance— Old French Style — The Portrait — Taciturnity — The 
Evergreen Tree — The Dark Hour — The Flash — Ancestors — A Fortunate 
Man — A Posthumous Child — Antagonistic Ideas — The Hawks — Flaws 
— ^The Pony — Irresistible Impulse — Favourable Crisis— The Topmost 
Branch — Twenty Feet — Heartily Ashamed ...... 

CHAPTER LXV. 

Maternal Anxiety — The Baronet — Little Zest — Country Life — Mr. Speaker ! 
— The Craving — Spirited Address — An Author 

CHAPTER LXVI. 

Trepidations — Subtle Principle — Perverse Imagination — Are they Mine? — 
Another Book— How Hard ! — Agricultural Dinner — Incomprehensible 
Actions — Inmost Bosom — Give it Up — Chance Resemblance — Rascally 
Newspaper . • 


CHAPTER LXVII. 

Disturbed Slumbers — The Bed-Post — Two Wizards — What can I Do? — Real 
Library — The Rev. Mr. Platitude — Toleration to Dissenters — Paradox — 
Sword of St. Peter — Enemy to Humbug — High Principles — False Con- 
cord — The Damsel — What Religion? — Further Conversation — That 
would never Do ! — May You Prosper ! . . . . 


PAGE 

312 

3 J 5 

318 

322 

3 2 4 

329 

334 

342 

346 


351 


XXII 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 

PAGE 

Elastic Step — Disconsolate Party — Not the Season — Mend Your Draught — 

Good Ale — Crotchet — Hammer and Tongs — Schoolmaster — True Eden 
Life — Flaming Tinman — Twice my Size — Hard at Work — My Poor 
Wife — Grey Moll — A Bible — Half and Half — What to do — Half Inclined 
— In No Time— On One Condition — Don’t Stare — Like the Wind. . 359 

CHAPTER LXIX. 

Effects of Corn — One Night Longer — The Hoofs — A Stumble — Are You 
Hurt ? — What a Difference — Drowsy — Maze of Bushes — Housekeeping 
— Sticks and Furze — The Drift-way — Account of Stock — Anvil and 
Bellows — Twenty Years 369 


CHAPTER LXX. 

New Profession — Beautiful Night — Jupiter — Sharp and Shrill — The Rom- 
many Chi — All Alone — Three and Sixpence — What is Rommany? — Be 
Civil — Parraco Tute — Slight Start — She Will Be Grateful — The Rustling 375 

CHAPTER LXXI. 

Friend of Slingsby — All Quiet — Danger — The Two Cakes — Children in the 
Wood — Don’t be Angry — In Deep Thought — Temples Throbbing — 
Deadly Sick — Another Blow — No Answer — How Old are You? — Play 
and Sacrament — Heavy Heart — Song of Poison — Drow of Gypsies — The 
Dog — Ely’s Church — Get Up, Bebee — The Vehicle — Can you Speak ! — 

The Oil ............. 381 

CHAPTER LXXII. 

Desired Effect — The Three Oaks — Winifred — Things of Time — With God’e 
Will — The Preacher — Creature Comforts — Croesaw — Welsh and English 
— Mayor of Chester 391 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 

Morning Hymn — Much Alone — John Bunyan — Beholden to Nobody — Sixty- 
five — Sober Greeting — Early Sabbaths— Finny Brood — The Porch — No 
Fortune-telling — The Master’s Niece — Doing Good — Two or Three 
Things — Groans and Voices — Pechod Ysprydd Gian .... 

CHAPTER LXXIV. 

The Following Day — Pride — Thriving Trade — Tylwyth Teg — Ellis Wyn — 
Sleeping Bard — Incalculable Good— Fearful Agony — The Tale 


CHAPTER LXXV. 

Taking a Cup— Getting to Heaven— After Breakfast— Wooden Gallery- 
Mechanical Habit — Reserved and Gloomy— Last Words— A Long Time 
—From the Clouds — Ray of Hope— Momentary Chill — Pleasing 
Anticipation 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 

Hasty Farewell— Lofty Rock— Wrestlings of Jacob— No Rest— Ways oi 
Providence— Two Females— Foot of the Cross— Enemy of Souls— Per- 
plexed— Lucky Hour— Valetudinarian— Methodists— Fervent in Prayer 
—You Saxons— Weak Creatures— Very Agreeable— Almost Happy— 
Kindness and Solicitude 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER LXXVII. 

Getting Late— Seven Years Old— Chastening— Go Forth— London Bridge- 
Same Eyes — Common Occurrence — Very Sleepy 

CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

Low and Calm— Much Better— Blessed Effect— No Answer— Such a Sermon 

CHAPTER LXXIX. 

Deep Interest— Goodly Country— Two Mansions— Welshman’s Candle- 
Beautiful Universe— Godly Discourse— Fine Church— Points of Doctrine 
—Strange Adventures— Paltrv Cause— Roman Pontiff— Evil Spirit 

CHAPTER LXXX. 

The Border— Thank You Both —Pipe and Fiddle— Taliesin .... 

CHAPTER LXXXI. 

At a Funeral— Two Days Ago— Very Coolly— Roman Woman— Well and 
Hearty— Somewhat Dreary— Plum Pudding— Roman Fashion— Quite 
Different— The Dark Lane— Beyond the Time— Fine Fellow— Such a 
Struggle— Like a Wild Cat— Fair Play— Pleasant Enough Spot— No 
Gloves 


CHAPTER LXXXII. 

Offence and Defence — I’m Satisfied — Fond of Solitude— Possession of Property 
— Chal Devlehi— Winding Path 

CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

Highly Poetical— Volundr— Grecian Mythology— Making a Petul— Tongues 
of Flame — Hammering — Spite of Dukkerin — Heaviness .... 

CHAPTER LXXXIV. 

Several Causes— Frogs and Eftes — Gloom and Twilight — What Should I Do ? 
— Our Father — Fellow Men — What a Mercy! — Almost Calm — Fresh 
Store — History of Saul — Pitch Dark 

CHAPTER LXXXV. 

Free and Independent — I Don’t See Why — Oats — A Noise — Unwelcome 
Visitors — What’s the Matter? — Good Day to Ye— The Tall Girl— Dovre- 
field — Blow on the Face — Civil Enough — What’s This? — -Vulgar Woman 
— Hands Off— Gasping for Breath — Long Melford— A Pretty. Manoeuvre 
— A Long Draught — Signs of Animation — It Won’t Do — No Malice — 
Bad People 


CHAPTER LXXXVI. 

At Tea — Vapours — Isopel Berners — Softly and Kindly — Sweet Pretty 
Creature — Bread and Water — Two Sailors — Truth and Constancy — 
Very Strangely 


CHAPTER LXXXVII. 

Hubbub of Voices — No Offence — Nodding — The Guests. 


xxiii 

PAGE 

421 

424 

426 

43i 

433 

441 

444 

448 

453 

463 


. 467 


XXIV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 

A Radical— Simple-Looking Man— Church of England— The President- 
Aristocracy — Gin and Water — Mending the Roads — Persecuting 
Church — Simon de Montfort — Broken Bells — Get Up — Not for the Pope 
—Quay of New York — Mumpers’ Dingle — No wish to Fight — First 
Draught — A Poor Pipe — Half a crown Broke 

CHAPTER LX XXIX. 

The Dingle— Give them Ale— Not over Complimentary— America— Goodly 
Land — Washington — Promiscuous Company — Language ot the Roads 
— The Old Women — Numerals — The Man in Black .... 

CHAPTER XC. 

Buona Sera — Rather Apprehensive — The Steep Bank — Lovely Virgin— Hospi- 
tality — Tory Minister — Custom of the Country — Sneering Smile- 
Wandering Zigan — Gypsies’ Cloaks — Certain Faculty — Acute Answer 
— Various Ways — Addio — Best Hollands 

CHAPTER XCI. 

Excursions — Adventurous English — Opaque Forests — The Greatest Patience 

CHAPTER XCII. 

The Landlord — Rather Too Old — Without a Shilling — Reputation — A Fort- 
night Ago — Liquids — The Main Chance — Respectability — Irrational 
Beings — Parliament Cove — My Brewer 

CHAPTER XCIII. 

Another Visit — A la Margutte — Clever Man — Napoleon’s Estimate — Another 
Statue 


CHAPTER XC1V. 

Prerogative— Feeling of Gratitude — A Long History — Alliterative Style — 
Advantageous Specimen — Jesuit Benefice — Not Sufficient — Queen Stork’s 
Tragedy — Good Sense — Grandeur and Gentility — Ironmonger’s 
Daughter — Clan Mac-Sycophant — Lick-Spittles — A Curiosity — News- 
paper Editors — Charles the Simple — High-flying Ditty — Dissenters — 
Lower Classes — Priestley’s House — Horseflesh — Austin— Renovating 
Glass — Money— Quite Original 

CHAPTER XCV. 

Wooded Retreat— Fresh Shoes — Wood Fire — Ash, when Green— Queen of 
China — Cleverest People — What’s a Declension? — The First Noun — 
Thunder — Deep Olive — What Do You Mean? — Koul Adonai — The 
Thick Bushes— Wood Pigeon— Old Goethe 

CHAPTER XCVI. 

A Shout — A Fire Ball— See to the Horses— Passing Away— Gap in the 
Hedge— On Three Wheels — Why Do You Stop? — No Craven Heart — 
The Cordial — Across the Country — Small Bags 


PAGE 


469 


477 


482 

489 


491 


496 


499 


5io 


517 


CONTENTS. 


XXV 


CHAPTER XCV1I. 

„ PAGE 

Fire of Charcoal — The New Comer — No Wonder ! — Not a Blacksmith — A 
Love Affair — Gretna Green — A Cool Thousand— Family Estates — 
Borough Interest — Grand Education — Let us Hear — Already Quarrel- 
ling — Honourable Parents — Most Heroically — Not Common People — 
Fresh Charcoal 522 


CHAPTER XCVIII. 

An Exordium — Fine Ships — High Barbary Captains — Free-Born Englishmen 
— Monstrous Figure — Swash-Buckler — The Grand Coaches — The Foot- 
men — A Travelling Expedition — Black Jack — Nelson’s Cannon — Phar- 
aoh’s Butler — A Diligence — Two Passengers — Sharking Priest — Virgilio 
— Lessons in Italian — Two Opinions — Holy Mary — Priestly Confeder- 
ates — Methodist Chapel — Eternal City — Foaming at the Mouth — Like a 
Sepulchre — All for Themselves 529 

CHAPTER XCIX. 

A Cloister — Half-English — New Acquaintance — Fits of Absence — Turning 
Papist — Purposes of Charity — Foreign Religion — Melancholy — Elbowing 
and Pushing — Outlandish Sight— The Figure— I Don’t Care for You— 
Rosy-faced Rascal — One Good — Religion of my Country — Fellow of 
Spirit— A Dispute— The Next Morning— Female Doll— Proper Dignity 
—Fetish Country 54° 


CHAPTER C. 

Nothing but Gloom — Sporting Character — Gouty Tory — Servant’s Club — 

Politics — Reformado Footman — Peroration — Good-Night . . . 549 


Editor’s Postscript 

Notes 

Gypsy List • -•••••• 568 


C 




























LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


George Borrow ( i photogravure ), from the Portrait by 


Phillips, R.A., in the possession of John Murray Frontispiece 

Edinburgh Castle To face page 45 

A Typical Irish Castle (Cashel) . . , „ 68 

Entrance to Grammar School, Norwich , . , „ 84 

The Erpingham Gate, Norwich, from the Cathedral 

Close „ 88 

Earlham Hall, near Norwich ..... „ 93 

“Marshland Shales” ....... >, 98 

Rackham’s Offices, Tuck’s Court, St. Giles’, Norwich „ 114 

William Taylor of Norwich (b. 1765, d. 1836) . . »> 146 

Stonehenge .......... ». 3 l8 

Mumpers’ Dingle. ........ >> 444 




























































































































































































-• 

















































































































LAVENGRO. 


(1851.) 

CHAPTER I. 


On an evening of July, in the year 18 — , at East D , a 

beautiful little town in a certain district of East Anglia, I first 
saw the light . 1 

My father was a Cornish man, the youngest, as I have heard 
him say, of seven brothers. He sprang from a family of 
gentlemen, or, as some people would call them, gentilldtres , for 
they were not very wealthy ; they had a coat of arms, however, 
and lived on their own property at a place called Tredinnock, 
which being interpreted means the house on the hill , which house 
and the neighbouring acres had been from time immemorial 
in their possession. I mention these particulars that the reader 
may see at once that I am not altogether of low and plebeian 
origin ; the present age is highly aristocratic, and I am convinced 
that the public will read my pages with more zest from being 
told that I am a gentillatre by birth with Comish blood * in my 
veins, of a family who lived on their own property at a place 
bearing a Celtic name, signifying the house on the hill, or more 
strictly the house on the hillock . 

My father was what is generally termed a posthumous child 
— in other words, the gentillatre who begot him never had the 
satisfaction of invoking the blessing of the Father of All upon his 
head, having departed this life some months before the birth of 
his youngest son. The boy, therefore, never knew a father’s 
care; he was, however, well tended by his mother, whose favourite 
he was ; so much so, indeed, that his brethren, the youngest of 
whom was considerably older than himself, were rather jealous of 

1 MS., " On the fifth day of July, 1803, at East D * a beautiful little town 

in the western division of Norfolk, I first saw the light”. 

* “ In Cornwall are the best gentlemen.” — Corn. Prov. 

I 


2 


LA VENGRO. 


[i758. 


him. I never heard, however, that they treated him with any 
marked unkindness ; and it will be as well to observe here 
that I am by no means well acquainted with his early 
history, of which, indeed, as I am not writing his life, it is not 
necessary to say much. Shortly after his mother’s death, which 
occurred when he was eighteen, he adopted the profession of 
arms, which he followed during the remainder of his life, and in 
which, had circumstances permitted, he would probably have 
shone amongst the best. By nature he was cool and collected, 
slow to anger, though perfectly fearless, patient of control, of 
great strength, and, to crown all, a proper man with his hands. 

With far inferior qualifications many a man has become a 
field-marshal or general ; similar ones made Tamerlane, who was 
not a gentillatre , but the son of a blacksmith, emperor of one- 
third of the world ; but the race is not always for the swift, nor 
the battle for the strong, indeed I ought rather to say very seldom ; 
certain it is, that my father, with all his high military qualifications, 
never became emperor, field-marshal, or even general ; indeed, he 
had never an opportunity of distinguishing himself save in one 
battle, and that took place neither in Flanders, Egypt, nor on the 
banks of the Indus or Oxus, but in Hyde Park. 

Smile not, gentle reader, many a battle has been fought in Hyde 
Park, in which as much skill, science and bravery have been 
displayed as ever achieved a victory in Flanders or by the Indus. 
In such a combat as that to which I allude, I opine that even 
Wellington or Napoleon would have been heartily glad to cry for 
quarter ere the lapse of five minutes, and even the Blacksmith 
Tartar would, perhaps, have shrunk from the opponent with whom, 
after having had a dispute with him , 1 my father engaged n single 
combat for one hour, at the end of which time the champions 
shook hands and retired, each having experienced quite enough 
of the other’s prowess. The name of my father’s antagonist was 
Brain. 

What ! still a smile ? did you never hear that name before ? 
I cannot help it! 'Honour to Brain, who four months after the 
event which I have now narrated was champion of England, 
having conquered the heroic Johnson. Honour to Brain, who 
at the end of other four months, worn out by the dreadful blows 
which he had received in his many 2 combats, expired in the arms 

of my father, who read the Bible to him in his latter moments 

Big Ben Brain. 

1 MS., “ after being insulted by him ”, 

2 So in MSS. ; " manly,” an erratum. 


MY PARENTS. 


3 


1772.] 


You no longer smile, even you have heard of Big Ben. 

I have already hinted that my father never rose to any very ex- 
alted rank in his profession, notwithstanding his prowess and other 
qualifications. After serving for many years in the line, he at last 

entered as captain in the militia regiment of the Earl of , l 

at that period just raised, and to which he was sent by the Duke 
of York to instruct the young levies in military manoeuvres and 
discipline ; and in this mission I believe he perfectly succeeded, 
competent judges having assured me that the regiment in question 
soon came by his means to be considered as one of the most 
brilliant in the service, and inferior to no regiment of the line in 
appearance or discipline. 

As the head- quarters of this corps were at D , the duties 

of my father not unfrequently carried him to that place, and it was 
on one of these occasions that he became acquainted with a 
young person of the neighbourhood, for whom he formed an 
attachment, which was returned ; and this young person was my 
mother. 

She was descended from a family of French Protestants, natives 
of Caen, who were obliged to leave their native country when old 
Louis, at the instigation of the Pope, thought fit to revoke the 
Edict of Nantes. Their name was Petrement, and I have reason 
for believing that they were people of some consideration ; that 
they were noble hearts and good Christians they gave sufficient 
proof in scorning to bow the knee to the tyranny of Rome. So 
they left beautiful Normandy for their faith’s sake, and with a few 
louis d’ors in their purse, a Bible in the vulgar tongue, and a 
couple of old swords, which, if report be true, had done service 
in the Huguenot wars, they crossed the sea to the isle of civil 
peace and religious liberty, and established themselves in East 
Anglia. 

And many other Huguenot families bent their steps thither, 
and devoted themselves to agriculture or the mechanical arts ; 
and in the venerable old city, the capital of the province, in the 
northern shadow of the Castle of De Burgh, the exiles built for 
themselves a church where they praised God in the French tongue, 
and to which, at particular seasons of the year, they were in the 
habit of flocking from country and from town to sing — 

“ Thou hast provided for us a goodly earth ; Thou waterest 
her furrows, Thou sendest rain into the little valleys thereof, 
Thou makest it soft with the drops of rain, and blessest the 
increase of it”. 


1 MS., “ Or ford ”. 


4 


LA VENGRO. 


[i793* 


I have been told that in her younger days my mother was 
strikingly handsome ; this I can easily believe. I never knew her 
in her youth, for though she was very young when she married 
my father (who was her senior by many years) she had attained 
the middle age before I was born, no children having been 
vouchsafed to my parents in the early stages of their union. 
Yet even at the present day, now that years threescore and ten 
have passed over her head, attended with sorrow and troubles 
manifold, poorly chequered with scanty joys, can I look on that 
countenance and doubt that at one time beauty decked it as 
with a glorious garment? Hail to thee, my parent! as thou 
sittest there, in thy widow’s weeds, in the dusky parlour in 
the house overgrown with the lustrous ivy of the sister isle, 
the solitary house at the end of the retired court shaded by lofty 
poplars. Hail to thee, dame of the oval face, olive complexion, 
and Grecian forehead; by thy table seated with the mighty 
volume of the good Bishop Hopkins spread out before thee; 
there is peace in thy countenance, my mother ; it is not worldly 
peace, however, not the deceitful peace which lulls to bewitching 
slumbers, and from which, let us pray, humbly pray, that every 
sinner may be roused in time to implore mercy not in vain ! 
Thine is the peace of the righteous, my mother, of those to 
whom no sin can be imputed, the score of whose misdeeds has 
been long since washed away by the blood of atonement, which 
imputeth righteousness to those who trust in it. It was not 
always thus, my mother; a time was, when the cares, pomps 
and vanities of this world agitated thee too much; but that time 
is gone by, another and a better has succeeded, there is peace 
now on thy countenance, the true peace; peace around thee, 
too, in thy solitary dwelling, sounds of peace, the cheerful 
hum of the kettle and the purring of the immense Angola, 
which stares up at thee from its settle with its almost human 
eyes. 

No more earthly cares and affections now, my mother? Yes, 
one. Why dost thou suddenly raise thy dark and still brilliant 
eye from the volume with a somewhat startled glance? What 
noise is that in the distant street ? Merely the noise of a hoof — 
a sound common enough ; it draws nearer, nearer, and now it 
stops before thy gate. Singular ! And now there is a pause, a 
long pause. Ha ! thou hearest something — a footstep, a swift 
but heavy footstep ! thou risest, thou tremblest ; there is a hand 
on the pin of the outer door ; there is some one in the vestibule ; 
and now the door of thy apartment opens; there is a reflection 


1800-1803.] 


JOHN AND GEORGE. 


5 


on the mirror behind thee — a travelling hat, a grey head and 
sunburnt face. “ My dearest Son ! ” “ My darling Mother ! ” 

Yes, mother, thou didst recognise in the distant street the 
hoof-tramp of the wanderer’s horse. 

I was not the only child of my parents ; I had a brother some 
three years older than myself. He was a beautiful child ; one 
of those occasionally seen in England, and in England alone; 
a rosy, angelic face, blue eyes, and light chestnut hair. It was 
not exactly an Anglo-Saxon countenance, in which, by-the-bye, 
there is generally a cast of loutishness and stupidity; it partook, 
to a certain extent, of the Celtic character, particularly in the fire 
and vivacity which illumined it ; his face was the mirror of his 
mind ; perhaps no disposition more amiable was ever found 
amongst the children of Adam, united, however, with no incon- 
siderable portion of high and dauntless spirit. So great was his 
beauty in infancy, that people, especially those of the poorer 
classes, would follow the nurse who carried him about in order 
to look at and bless his lovely face. At the age of three months 
an attempt was made to snatch him from his mother’s arms in 
the streets of London, at the moment she was about to enter a 
coach; indeed, his appearance seemed to operate so powerfully 
upon every person who beheld him, that my parents were under 
continual apprehension of losing him ; his beauty, however, was 
perhaps surpassed by the quickness of his parts. He mastered 
his letters in a few hours, and in a day or two could decipher 
the names of people on the doors of houses and over the shop 
windows. 

As he grew up, his personal appearance became less prepos- 
sessing, his quickness and cleverness, however, rather increased ; 
and I may say of him, that with respect to everything which he 
took in hand he did it better and more speedily than any other 
person. Perhaps it will be asked here, what became of him? 
Alas ! alas ! his was an early and a foreign grave. As I have said 
before, the race is not always for the swift, nor the battle for the 
strong. 

And now, doubtless, after the above portrait of my brother, 
painted in the very best style of Rubens, the reader will conceive 
himself justified in expecting a full-length one of myself, as a 
child, for as to my present appearance, I suppose he will be 
tolerably content with that flitting glimpse in the mirror. But he 
must excuse me; I have no intention of drawing a portrait of 
myself in childhood ; indeed it would be difficult, for at that 
time I never looked into mirrors. No attempts, however, were 


6 


LA VENGRO. 


fi8o3- 


ever made to steal me in my infancy, and I never heard that my 
parents entertained the slightest apprehension of losing me by 
the hands of kidnappers, though I remember perfectly well that 
people were in the habit of standing still to look at me, ay, more 
than at my brother ; from which premises the reader may form any 
conclusion with respect to my appearance which seemeth good 
unto him and reasonable. Should he, being a good-natured 
person and always inclined to adopt the charitable side in any 
doubtful point, be willing to suppose that I, too, was eminently 
endowed by nature with personal graces, I tell him frankly that 
I have no objection whatever to his entertaining that idea; 
moreover, that I heartily thank him, and shall at all times be 
disposed, under similar circumstances, to exercise the same 
species of charity towards himself. 

With respect to my mind and its qualities I shall be more 
explicit ; for, were I to maintain much reserve on this point, many 
things which appear in these memoirs would be highly mysterious 
to the reader, indeed incomprehensible. Perhaps no two indivi- 
duals were ever more unlike in mind and disposition than my 
brother and myself. As light is opposed to darkness, so was that 
happy, brilliant, cheerful child to the sad and melancholy being 
who sprang from the same stock as himself, and was nurtured by 
the same milk. 

Once, when travelling in an Alpine country, I arrived at a 
considerable elevation ; I saw in the distance, far below, a 
beautiful stream hastening to the ocean, its rapid waters here 
sparkling in the sunshine, and there tumbling merrily in cascades. 
On its banks were vineyards and cheerful villages ; close to where 
I stood, in a granite basin with steep and precipitous sides, 
slumbered a deep, dark lagoon, shaded by black pines, cypresses 
and yews. It was a wild, savage spot, strange and singular; 
ravens hovered above the pines, filling the air with their uncouth 
notes, pies chattered, and I heard the cry of an eagle from a 
neighbouring peak; there lay the lake, the dark, solitary and 
almost inaccessible lake ; gloomy shadows were upon it, which, 
strangely modified as gusts of wind agitated the surface, occasion- 
ally assumed the shape of monsters. So I stood on the Alpine 
elevation, and looked now on the gay distant river, and now at 
the dark granite-encircled lake close beside me in the lone 
solitude, and I thought of my brother and myself. I am no 
moraliser ; but the gay and rapid river and the dark and silent 
lake, were, of a verity, no bad emblems of us two. 

So far from being quick and clever like my brother, and able 


THE JEW . 


1 


1805.] 


to rival the literary feat which I have recorded of him, many 
years elapsed before I was able to understand the nature of 
letters, or to connect them. A lover of nooks and retired corners* 
I was as a child in the habit of fleeing from society* and of sitting 
for hours together with my head on my breast. What I was 
thinking about, it would be difficult to say at this distance of 
time ; I remember perfectly well, however, being ever conscious 
of a peculiar heaviness within me, and at times of a strange 
sensation of fear, which occasionally amounted to horror, and 
for which I could assign no real cause whatever. 

By nature slow of speech, I took no pleasure in conversation, 
nor in hearing the voices of my fellow-creatures. When people 
addressed me I not unfrequently, especially if they were strangers, 
turned away my head from them, and if they persisted in their 
notice burst into tears, which singularity of behaviour by no 
means tended to dispose people in my favour. I was as much 
disliked as my brother was deservedly beloved and admired. My 
parents, it is true, were always kind to me ; and my brother, who 
was good nature itself, was continually lavishing upon me every 
mark of affection. 

There was, however, one individual who, in the days of my 
childhood, was disposed to form a favourable opinion of me. One 
day, a Jew — I had quite forgotten the circumstance, but I was long 
subsequently informed of it — one day a travelling Jew knocked 
at the door of a farmhouse in which we had taken apartments. I 
was near at hand, sitting in the bright sunshine, drawing strange 
lines on the dust with my fingers, an ape and dog were my com- 
panions. The Jew looked at me and asked me some questions, 
to which, though I was quite able to speak, I returned no answer. 
On the door being opened, the Jew, after a few words, probably 
relating to pedlary, demanded who the child was, sitting in the 
sun ; the maid replied that I was her mistress’s youngest son, a 
child weak here , pointing to her forehead. The Jew looked at 
me again, and then said : “ ’Pon my conscience, my dear, I believe 
that you must be troubled there yourself to tell me any such thing. 
It is not my habit to speak to children, inasmuch as I hate them, 
because they often follow me and fling stones after me ; but I no 
sooner looked at that child than I was forced to speak to it. His 
not answering me shows his sense, for it has never been the 
custom of the wise to fling away their words in indifferent talk 
and conversation. The child is a sweet child, and has all the look 
of one of our people’s children. Fool, indeed ! did I not see his 
eyes sparkle just now when the monkey seized the dog by the 


8 


LA VENGRO . 


[1805 


ear? they shone like my own diamonds — does your good lady 
want any, real and fine? Were it not for what you tell me, I 
should say it was a prophet’s child. Fool, indeed ! he can write 
already, or I’ll forfeit the box which I carry on my back, and for 
which I should be loth to take two hundred pounds ! ” He then 
leaned forward to inspect the lines which I had traced. All of a 
sudden he started back, and grew white as a sheet ; then, taking off 
his hat, he made some strange gestures to me, cringing, chattering, 
and showing his teeth, and shortly departed, muttering something 
about “ holy letters,” and talking to himself in a strange tongue. 
The words of the Jew were in due course of time reported to my 
mother, who treasured them in her heart, and from that moment 
began to entertain brighter hopes of her youngest-born than she 
had ever before ventured to foster. 


CHAPTER II. 


I have been a wanderer the greater part of my life; indeed I 
remember only two periods, and these by no means lengthy, when 
I was, strictly speaking, stationary. I was a soldier’s son, and as 
the means of my father were by no means sufficient to support 
two establishments, his family invariably attended him wherever 
he went, so that from my infancy I was accustomed to travelling 
and wandering, and looked upon a monthly change of scene and 
residence as a matter of course. Sometimes we lived in barracks, 
sometimes in lodgings, but generally in the former, always eschew- 
ing the latter from motives of economy, save when the barracks 
were inconvenient and uncomfortable ; and they must have been 
highly so indeed to have discouraged us from entering them ; for 
though we were gentry (pray bear that in mind, gentle reader), 
gentry by birth, and incontestably so by my father’s bearing the 
commission of good old George the Third, we were not fine gentry , 
but people who could put up with as much as any genteel Scotch 
family who find it convenient to live on a third floor in London, 
or on a sixth at Edinburgh or Glasgow. It was not a little that 
could discourage us. We once lived within the canvas walls of a 
camp, at a place called Pett, in Sussex ; and I believe it was at 
this place that occurred the first circumstance, or adventure, call 
it which you will, that I can remember in connection with my- 
self. It was a strange one, and I will relate it. 

It happened that my brother and myself were playing one 
evening in a sandy lane, in the neighbourhood of this Pett camp ; 
our mother was at a slight distance. All of a sudden, a bright 
yellow, and, to my infantine eye, beautiful and glorious object 
made its appearance at the top of the bank from between the 
thick quickset, and, gliding down, began to move across the lane 
to the other side, like a line of golden light. Uttering a cry of 
pleasure, I sprang forward, and seized it nearly by the middle. 
A strange sensation of numbing coldness seemed to pervade my 
whole arm, which surprised me the more as the object to the eye 
appeared so warm and sunlike. I did not drop it, however, but, 
holding it up, looked at it intently, as its head dangled about a 


10 


LA VENGRO. 


[1806. 


foot from my hand. It made no resistance ; I felt not even the 
slightest struggle; but now my brother began to scream and 
shriek like one possessed. “ O mother, mother ! ” said he, “ the 
viper ! my brother has a viper in his hand ! ’* He then, like one 
frantic, made an effort to snatch the creature away from me. The 
viper now hissed amain, and raised its head, in which were eyes 
like hot coals, menacing, not myself, but my brother. I dropped 
my captive, for I saw my mother running towards me ; and the 
reptile, after standing for a moment nearly erect, and still hissing 
furiously, made off, and disappeared. The whole scene is now 
before me, as vividly as if it occurred yesterday — the gorgeous 
viper, my poor dear frantic brother, my agitated parent, and a 
frightened hen clucking under the bushes; and yet I was not 
three years old. 

It is my firm belief that certain individuals possess an inherent 
power, or fascination, over certain creatures, otherwise I should 
be unable to account for many feats which I have witnessed, and, 
indeed, borne a share in, connected with the taming of brutes and 
reptiles. I have known a savage and vicious mare, whose stall 
it was dangerous to approach, even when bearing provender, wel- 
come, nevertheless, with every appearance of pleasure, an uncouth, 
wiry-headed man, with a frightfully seamed face, and an iron hook 
supplying the place of his right hand, one whom the animal had 
never seen before, playfully bite his hair and cover his face with 
gentle and endearing kisses ; and I have already stated how a 
viper would permit, without resentment, one child to take it up 
in his hand, whilst it showed its dislike to the approach of another 
by the fiercest hissings. Philosophy can explain many strange 
things, but there are some which are a far pitch above her, and 
this is one. 

I should scarcely relate another circumstance which occurred 
about this time but for a singular effect which it produced upon 
my constitution. Up to this period I had been rather a delicate 
child ; whereas, almost immediately after the occurrence to which 
I allude, I became both hale and vigorous, to the great astonish- 
ment of my parents, who naturally enough expected that it would 
produce quite a contrary effect. 

It happened that my brother and myself were disporting 
ourselves in certain fields near the good town of Canterbury. A 
female servant had attended us, in order to take care that we 
came to no mischief. She, however, it seems, had matters of 
her own to attend to, and, allowing us to go where we listed, 
remained in one corner of a field, in earnest conversation with 


1806-7.] 


HYTHE. 


11 


a red-coated dragoon. Now it chanced to be blackberry time, 
and the two children wandered under the hedges, peering 
anxiously among them in quest of that trash so grateful to 
urchins of their degree. We did not find much of it, however, 
and were soon separated in the pursuit. All at once I stood 
still, and could scarcely believe my eyes. I had come to a spot 
where, almost covering the hedge, hung clusters of what seemed 
fruit, deliciously-tempting fruit — something resembling grapes of 
various colours, green, red and purple. Dear me, thought I, 
how fortunate ! yet have I a right to gather it ? is it mine ? for 
the observance of the law of meum and tuum had early been 
impressed upon my mind, and I entertained, even at that tender 
age, the utmost horror for theft ; so I stood staring at the varie- 
gated clusters, in doubt as to what I should do. I know not how 
I argued the matter in my mind ; the temptation, however, was 
at last too strong for me, so I stretched forth my hand and ate. 
I remember perfectly well, that the taste of this strange fruit was 
by no means so pleasant as the appearance ; but the idea of eating 
fruit was sufficient for a child, and, after all, the flavour was much 
superior to that of sour apples, so I ate voraciously. How long 
I continued eating I scarcely know. One thing is certain, that I 
never left the field as I entered it, being carried home in the arms 
of the dragoon in strong convulsions, in which I continued for 
several hours. About midnight I awoke, as if from a troubled 
sleep, and beheld my parents bending over my couch, whilst the 
regimental surgeon, with a candle in his hand, stood nigh, the 
light feebly reflected on the whitewashed walls of the barrack- 
room. 

Another circumstance connected with my infancy, and I have 
done. I need offer no apology for relating it, as it subsequently 
exercised considerable influence over my pursuits. We were, if 
I remember right, in the vicinity of a place called Hythe, in Kent. 
One sweet evening, in the latter part of summer, our mother took 
her two little boys by the hand, for a wander about the fields. 
In the course of our stroll we came to the village church ; an old 
grey-headed sexton stood in the porch, who, perceiving that we 
were strangers, invited us to enter. We were presently in the 
interior, wandering about the aisles, looking on the walls, and 
inspecting the monuments of the notable dead. I can scarcely 
state what we saw ; how should I ? I was a child not yet four 
years old, and yet I think I remember the evening sun streaming 
in through a stained window upon the dingy mahogany pulpit, 
and flinging a rich lustre upon the faded tints of an ancient 


LA VENGRO. 


[1806-7. 


12 


banner. And now once more we were outside the building, 
where, against the wall, stood a low-eaved pent-house, into which 
we looked. It was half-filled with substances of some kind, which 
at first looked like large grey stones. The greater part were lying 
in layers ; some, however, were seen in confused and mouldering 
heaps, and two or three, which had perhaps rolled down from 
the rest, lay separately on the floor. “ Skulls, madam,” said the 
sexton ; “ skulls of the old Danes ! Long ago they came pirating 
into these parts ; and then there chanced a mighty shipwreck, for 
God was angry with them, and He sunk them ; and their skulls, 
as they came ashore, were placed here as a memorial. There 
were many more when I was young, but now they are fast dis- 
appearing. Some of them must have belonged to strange fellows, 
madam. Only see that one; why, the two young gentry can 
scarcely lift it ! ” And, indeed, my brother and myself had 
entered the Golgotha, and commenced handling these grim 
relics of mortality. One enormous skull, lying in a corner, had 
fixed our attention, and we had drawn it forth. Spirit of eld, what 
a skull was yon ! 

I still seem to see it, the huge grim thing ; many of the others 
were large, strikingly so, and appeared fully to justify the old man’s 
conclusion that their owners must have been strange fellows ; but, 
compared with this mighty mass of bone, they looked small and 
diminutive, like those of pigmies ; it must have belonged to a 
giant, one of those red-haired warriors of whose strength and 
stature such wondrous tales are told in the ancient chronicles 
of the north, and whose grave-hills, when ransacked, occasionally 
reveal secrets which fill the minds of puny moderns with astonish- 
ment and awe. Reader, have you ever pored days and nights 
over the pages of Snorro? probably not, for he wrote in a 
language which few of the present day understand, and few 
would be tempted to read him tamed down by Latin dragomans. 
A brave old book is that of Snorro, containing the histories and 
adventures of old northern kings and champions, who seemed to 
have been quite different men, if we may judge from the feats 
which they performed, from those of these days. One of the 
best of his histories is that which describes the life of Harald 
Haardraade, who, after manifold adventures by land and sea, 
now a pirate, now a mercenary of the Greek emperor, became 
King of Norway, and eventually perished at the battle of Stanford 
Bridge, whilst engaged in a gallant onslaught upon England. 
Now, I have often thought that the old Kemp, whose mouldering 
skull in the golgotha of Hythe my brother and myself could 


STIRRING TIMES. 


i3 


1807.] 


scarcely lift, must have resembled in one iespect at least this 
Harald, whom Snorro describes as a great and wise ruler and a 
determined leader, dangerous in battle, of fair presence, and 
measuring in height just five ells,* neither more nor less. 

I never forgot the Daneman’s skull ; like the apparition of the 
viper in the sandy lane, it dwelt in the mind of the boy, affording 
copious food for the exercise of imagination. From that moment 
with the name of Dane were associated strange ideas of strength, 
daring, and superhuman stature; and an undefinable curiosity for 
all that is connected with the Danish race began to pervade me ; 
and if, long after, when I became a student, I devoted myself 
with peculiar zest to Danish lore and the acquirement of the old 
Norse tongue and its dialects, I can only explain the matter by 
the early impression received at Hythe from the tale of the old 
sexton, beneath the pent-house, and the sight of the Danish skull. 

And thus we went on straying from place to place, at Hythe 
to-day, and perhaps within a week looking out from our hostel- 
window upon the streets of old Winchester, our motions ever in 
accordance with the “route” of the regiment, so habituated to 
change of scene that it had become almost necessary to our 
existence. Pleasant were those days of my early boyhood ; and 
a melancholy pleasure steals over me as I recall them. Those 
were stirring times of which I am speaking, and there was much 
passing around me calculated to captivate the imagination. The 
dreadful struggle which so long convulsed Europe, and in which 
England bore so prominent a part, was then at its hottest; we 
were at war, and determination and enthusiasm shone in every 
face ; man, woman and child were eager to fight the Frank, the 
hereditary, but, thank God, never dreaded enemy of the Anglo- 
Saxon race. “Love your country and beat the French, and then 
never mind what happens,” was the cry of entire England. Oh, 
those were days of power, gallant days, bustling days, worth the 
bravest days of chivalry, at least ; tall battalions of native warriors 
were marching through the land; there was the glitter of the 
bayonet and the gleam of the sabre ; the shrill squeak of the 
fife and loud rattling of the drum were heard in the streets of 
country towns, and the loyal shouts of the inhabitants greeted 
the soldiery on their arrival, or cheered them at their departure. 
And now let us leave the upland, and descend to the sea-bord; 
there is a sight for you upon the billows ! A dozen men-of-war 
are gliding majestically out of port, their long buntings streaming 


Norwegian ells — about eight feet. 


H 


LA VENGRO. 


[1807-8. 


from the top-gallant masts, calling on the skulking Frenchman to 
come forth from his bights and bays; and what looms upon us 
yonder from the fog-bank in the east? a gallant frigate towing 
behind her the long low hull of a crippled privateer, which but 
three short days ago had left Dieppe to skim the sea, and whose 
crew of ferocious hearts are now cursing their imprudence in an 
English hold. Stirring times those, which I love to recall, for 
they were days of gallantry and enthusiasm, and were moreover 
the days of my boyhood. 


CHAPTER III. 


And when I was between six and seven years of age we were once 

more at D , the place of my birth, whither my father had been 

despatched on the recruiting service. I have already said that it 
was a beautiful little town — at least it was at the time of which I 
am speaking ; what it is at present I know not, for thirty years and 
more have elapsed since I last trod its streets. It will scarcely 
have improved, for how could it be better than it then was ? I 

love to think on thee, pretty, quiet D , thou pattern of an 

English country town, with thy clean but narrow streets branching 
out from thy modest market-place, with thine old-fashioned houses, 
with here and there a roof of venerable thatch, with thy one half- 
aristocratic mansion, where resided thy Lady Bountiful — she, the 
generous and kind, who loved to visit the sick, leaning on her 
golden -headed cane, whilst the sleek old footman walked at a 
respectful distance behind. Pretty, quiet D , with thy vener- 

able church, in which moulder the mortal remains of England’s 
sweetest and most pious bard. 

Yes, pretty D , I could always love thee, were it but for 

the sake of him who sleeps beneath the marble slab in yonder 
quiet chancel. It was within thee that the long-oppressed bosom 
heaved its last sigh, and the crushed and gentle spirit escaped 
from a world in which it had known nought but sorrow. Sorrow ! 
do I say ? How faint a word to express the misery of that bruised 
reed ; misery so dark that a blind worm like myself is occasionally 
tempted to exclaim, Better had the world never been created 
than that one so kind, so harmless, and so mild, should have 
undergone such intolerable woe ! But it is over now, for, as there 
is an end of joy, so has affliction its termination. Doubtless the 
All-wise did not afflict him without a cause. Who knows but 
within that unhappy frame lurked vicious seeds which the sun- 
beams of joy and prosperity might have called into life and 
vigour? Perhaps the withering blasts of misery nipped that 
which otherwise might have terminated in fruit noxious and 
lamentable. But peace to the unhappy one, he is gone to his 
rest; the deathlike face is no longer occasionally seen timidly 

os) 


i6 


LA VENGRO. 


[1809-10. 


and mournfully looking for a moment through the window-pane 

upon thy market-place, quiet and pretty D ; the hind in thy 

neighbourhood no longer at evening-fall views, and starts as he 
view’s, the dark lathy figure moving beneath the hazels and alders 
of shadowy lanes, or by the side of murmuring trout streams; 
and no longer at early dawn does the sexton of the old church 
reverently doff his hat, as, supported by some kind friend, the 
death-stricken creature totters along the church-path to that 
mouldering edifice with the low roof, inclosing a spring of 
sanatory waters, built and devoted to some saint — if the legend 
over the door be true, by the daughter of an East Anglian 
king. 

But to return to my own history. I had now attained the 
age of six. Shall I state what intellectual progress I had been 
making up to this period ? Alas ! upon this point I have little to 
say calculated to afford either pleasure or edification. I had 
increased rapidly in size and in strength ; the growth of the mind, 
however, had by no means corresponded with that of the body. 
It is true, I had acquired my letters, and was by this time able to 
read imperfectly, but this was all ; and even this poor triumph 
over absolute ignorance would never have been effected but for 
the unremitting attention of my parents, who, sometimes by threats, 
sometimes by entreaties, endeavoured to rouse the dormant energies 
of my nature, and to bend my wishes to the acquisition of the 
rudiments of knowledge ; but in influencing the wish lay the 
difficulty. Let but the will of a human being be turned to any 
particular object, and it is ten to one that sooner or later he 
achieves it. At this time I may safely say that I harboured 
neither wishes nor hopes ; I had as yet seen no object calculated 
to call them forth, and yet I took pleasure in many things which 
perhaps unfortunately were all within my sphere of enjoyment. I 
loved to look upon the heavens, and to bask in the rays of the 
sun, or to sit beneath hedgerows and listen to the chirping of 
the birds, indulging the while in musing and meditation as far 
as my very limited circle of ideas would permit ; but, unlike my 
brother, who was at this time at school, and whose rapid progress 
in every branch of instruction astonished and delighted his pre- 
ceptors, I took no pleasure in books, whose use, indeed, I could 
scarcely comprehend, and bade fair to be as arrant a dunce as 
ever brought the blush of shame into the cheeks of anxious and 
affectionate parents. 

But the time was now at hand when the ice which had hitherto 
bound the mind of the child with its benumbing power was to 


i8og-io.] 


THE SMALL PACKET. 


l 7 


be thawed, and a world of sensations and ideas awakened to 
which it had hitherto been an entire stranger. One day a young 
lady, an intimate acquaintance of our family, and godmother to 
my brother, drove up to the house in which we dwelt ; she staid 
some time conversing with my mother, and on rising to depart she 
put down on the table a small packet, exclaiming : “ I have brought 
a little present for each of the boys : the one is a History of 
England, which I intend for my godson when he returns from 

school, the other is ” and here she said something which 

escaped my ear, as I sat at some distance, moping in a corner : 
“ I intend it for the youngster yonder,” pointing to myself ; she 
then departed, and, my mother going out shortly after, I was left 
alone. 

I remember for some time sitting motionless in my corner, 
with my eyes bent upon the ground ; at last I lifted my head and 
looked upon the packet as it lay on the table. All at once a 
strange sensation came over me, such as I had never experienced 
before — a singular blending of curiosity, awe and pleasure, the 
remembrance of which, even at this distance of time, produces a 
remarkable effect upon my nervous system. What strange things 
are the nerves — I mean those more secret and mysterious ones in 
which I have some notion that the mind or soul, call it which you 
will, has its habitation ; how they occasionally tingle and vibrate 
before any coming event closely connected with the future weal 
or woe of the human being. Such a feeling was now within me, 
certainly independent of what the eye had seen or the ear had 
heard. A book of some description had been brought for me, a 
present by no means calculated to interest me ; what cared I for 
books ? I had already many into which I never looked but from 
compulsion ; friends, moreover, had presented me with similar 
things before, which I had entirely disregarded, and what was 
there in this particular book, whose very title I did not know, 
calculated to attract me more than the rest ? yet something within 
told me that my fate was connected with the book which had 
been last brought ; so, after looking on the packet from my corner 
for a considerable time, I got up and went to the table. 

The packet was lying where it had been left — I took it up ; 
had the envelope, which consisted of whitish brown paper, been 
secured by a string or a seal, I should not have opened it, as I 
should have considered such an act almost in the light of a crime ; 
the books, however, had been merely folded up, and I therefore 
considered that there could be no possible harm in inspecting 
them, more especially as I had received no injunction to the 

2 


i8 


LA VENGRO. 


[1809-10. 


contrary. Perhaps there was something unsound in this reasoning, 
something sophistical ; but a child is sometimes as ready as a 
grown-up person in finding excuses for doing that which he is 
inclined to. But whether the action was right or wrong, and I 
am afraid it was not altogether right, I undid the packet. It 
contained three books, two from their similarity seemed to be 
separate parts of one and the same work ; they were handsomely 
bound, and to them I first turned my attention. I opened them 
successively and endeavoured to make out their meaning ; their 
contents, however, as far as I was able to understand them, were 
by no means interesting : whoever pleases may read these books 
for me, and keep them too, into the bargain, said I to myself. 

I now took up the third book. It did not resemble the others, 
being longer and considerably thicker ; the binding was of dingy 
calf-skin. I opened it, and as I did so another strange thrill of 
pleasure shot through my frame. The first object on which my 
eyes rested was a picture ; it was exceedingly well executed, at 
least the scene which it represented made a vivid impression upon 
me, which would hardly have been the case had the artist not 
been faithful to nature. A wild scene it was — a heavy sea and 
rocky shore, with mountains in the background, above which the 
moon was peering. Not far from the shore, upon the water, was 
a boat with two figures in it, one of which stood at the bow, 
pointing with what I knew to be a gun at a dreadful shape in the 
water ; fire was flashing from the muzzle of the gun, and the 
monster appeared to be transfixed. I almost thought I heard its 
cry. I remained motionless, gazing upon the picture, scarcely 
daring to draw my breath, lest the new and wondrous world 
should vanish of which I had now obtained a glimpse. “ Who 
are those people, and what could have brought them into that 
strange situation ? ” I asked of myself ; and now the seed of 
curiosity, which had so long lain dormant, began to expand, and I 
vowed to myself to become speedily acquainted with the whole 
history of the people in the boat. After looking on the picture 
till every mark and line in it were familiar to me, I turned over 
various leaves till I came to another engraving ; a new source of 
wonder — a low sandy beach on which the furious sea was breaking 
in mountain-like billows ; cloud and rack deformed the firma- 
ment, which wore a dull and leaden-like hue; gulls and other 
aquatic fowls were toppling upon the blast, or skimming over the 
tops of the maddening waves — “ Mercy upon him ! he must be 
drowned ! ” I exclaimed, as my eyes fell upon a poor wretch who 
appeared to be striving to reach the shore ; he was upon his legs, 


1809-10.] 


SPIRIT OF DB FOE. 


19 


but was evidently half-smothered with the brine ; high above his 
head curled a horrible billow, as if to engulf him for ever. “ He 
must be drowned ! he must be drowned ! ” I almost shrieked, 
and dropped the book. I soon snatched it up again, and now 
my eye lighted on a third picture : again a shore, but what a sweet 
and lovely one, and how I wished to be treading it ; there were 
beautiful shells lying on the smooth white sand, some were empty 
like those I had occasionally seen on marble mantelpieces, but 
out of others peered the heads and bodies of wondrous crayfish ; 
a wood of thick green trees skirted the beach and partly shaded it 
from the rays of the sun, which shone hot above, while blue waves 
slightly crested with foam were gently curling against it; there 
was a human figure upon the beach, wild and uncouth, clad in the 
skins of animals, with a huge cap on his head, a hatchet at his 
girdle, and in his hand a gun ; his feet and legs were bare ; he 
stood in an attitude of horror and surprise ; his body was bent far 
back, and his eyes, which seemed starting out of his head, were 
fixed upon a mark on the sand — a large distinct mark — a human 
footprint ! 

Reader, is it necessary to name the book which now stood 
open in my hand, and whose very prints, feeble expounders of its 
wondrous lines, had produced within me emotions strange and 
novel ? Scarcely, for it was a book which has exerted over the 
minds of Englishmen an influence certainly greater than any other 
of modern times, which has been in most people’s hands, and with 
the contents of which even those who cannot read are to a certain 
extent acquainted ; a book from which the most luxuriant and 
fertile of our modern prose writers have drunk inspiration ; a 
book, moreover, to which, from the hardy deeds which it narrates, 
and the spirit of strange and romantic enterprise which it tends 
to awaken, England owes many of her astonishing discoveries both 
by sea and land, and no inconsiderable part of her naval glory. 

Hail to thee, spirit of De Foe ! What does not my own poor 
self owe to thee ? England has better bards than either Greece or 
Rome, yet I could spare them easier far than De Foe, “unabashed 
De Foe,” as the hunchbacked rhymer styled him. 

The true chord had now been touched. A raging curiosity 
with respect to the contents of the volume, whose engravings had 
fascinated my eye, burned within me, and I never rested until I 
had fully satisfied it. Weeks succeeded weeks, months followed 
months, and the wondrous volume was my only study and principal 
source of amusement. For hours together I would sit poring over 
a page till I had become acquainted with the import of every line. 


20 


LA VENGRO . 


[1809-10. 


My progress, slow enough at first, became by degrees more rapid, 
till at last, under “a shoulder of mutton sail,” I found myself 
cantering before a steady breeze over an ocean of enchantment, 
so well pleased with my voyage that I cared not how long it might 
be ere it reached its termination. 

And it was in this manner that I first took to the paths of 
knowledge. 

About this time I began to be somewhat impressed with 
religious feelings. My parents were, to a certain extent, religious 
people; but, though they had done their best to afford me 
instruction on religious points, I had either paid no attention to 
what they endeavoured to communicate, or had listened with an 
ear far too obtuse to derive any benefit. But my mind had now 
become awakened from the drowsy torpor in which it had lain so 
long, and the reasoning powers which I possessed were no longer 
inactive. Hitherto I had entertained no conception whatever of 
the nature and properties of God, and with the most perfect 
indifference had heard the Divine name proceeding from the 
mouths of the people — frequently, alas ! on occasions when it 
ought not to be employed ; but I now never heard it without 
a tremor, for I now knew that God was an awful and inscrutable 
being, the maker of all things; that we were His children, and that we 
by our sins, had justly offended Him ; that we were in very great 
peril from His anger, not so much in this life, as in another and far 
stranger state of being yet to come ; that we had a Saviour withal 
to whom it was necessary to look for help : upon this point, 
however, I was yet very much in the dark, as, indeed, were most 
of those with whom I was connected. The power and terrors 
of God were uppermost in my thoughts ; they fascinated though 
they astounded me. Twice every Sunday I was regularly taken 
to the church, where from a corner of the large, spacious pew, 
lined with black leather, I would fix my eyes on the dignified 
high-church rector, and the dignified high-church clerk, and watch 
the movement of their lips, from which, as they read their 
respective portions of the venerable liturgy, would roll many a 
portentous word descriptive of the wondrous works of the Most 
High. 

Rector. “Thou didst divide the sea, through Thy power: 
Thou brakest the heads of the dragons in the waters.” 

Philoh. “Thou smotest the heads of Leviathan in pieces: 
and gavest him to be meat for the people in the wilderness.” 

Rector. “Thou broughtest out fountains and waters out of 
the hard rocks : Thou driedst up mighty waters.” 


i8og-io.] 


HIGH-CHURCH CLERK. 


2 


Philoh. “The day is Thine, and the night is Thine: Thou 
hast prepared the light and the sun.” 

Peace to your memories dignified rector and yet more dignified 
clerk ! by this time ye are probably gone to your long homes, and 
your voices are no longer heard sounding down the aisles of the 
venerable church ; nay, doubtless, this has already long since been 
the fate of him of the sonorous “ Amen ! ” — the one of the two 
who, with all due respect to the rector, principally engrossed my 
boyish admiration — he, at least, is scarcely now among the living ! 
Living ! why, I have heard say that he blew a fife — for he was a 
musical as well as a Christian professor — a bold fife, to cheer the 
Guards and the brave Marines as they marched with measured 
step, obeying an insane command, up Bunker’s height, whilst the 
rifles of the sturdy Yankees were sending the leaden hail sharp 
and thick amidst the red-coated ranks ; for Philoh had not always 
been a man of peace, nor an exhorter to turn the other cheek to 
the smiter, but had even arrived at the dignity of a halberd in his 
country’s service before his six-foot form required rest, and the 
grey-haired veteran retired, after a long peregrination, to his 
native town, to enjoy ease and respectability on a pension of 
“ eighteen-pence a day ” ; and well did his fellow-townsmen act 
when, to increase that ease and respectability, and with a thought- 
ful regard for the dignity of the good church service, they made 
him clerk and precentor — the man of the tall form and of the 
audible voice, which sounded loud and clear as his own Bunker 
fife. Well, peace to thee, thou fine old chap, despiser of dissen- 
ters, and hater of papists, as became a dignified and high-church 
clerk; if thou art in thy grave the better for thee; thou wert 
fitted to adore a bygone time, when loyalty was in vogue, and 
smiling content lay like a sunbeam upon the land, but thou 
wouldst be sadly out of place in these days of cold philosophic 
latitudinarian doctrine, universal tolerism, and half-concealed 
rebellion — rare times, no doubt, for papists and dissenters, but 
which would assuredly have broken the heart of the loyal soldier 
of George the Third, and the dignified high-church clerk of pretty 
D . 

We passed many months at this place. Nothing, however, 
occurred requiring any particular notice, relating to myself, beyond 
what I have already stated, and I am not writing the history of 
others. At length my father was recalled to his regiment, which at 
that time was stationed at a place called Norman Cross, in Lincoln- 
shire, or rather Huntingdonshire, at some distance from the old 
town of Peterborough. For this place he departed, leaving my 


22 


LA VENGRO . 


[1810-11. 


mother and myself to follow in a few days. Our journey was a 
singular one. On the second day we reached a marshy and fenny 
country, which owing to immense quantities of rain which had 
lately fallen, was completely submerged. At a large town we got 
on board a kind of passage-boat, crowded with people; it had 
neither sails nor oars, and those were not the days of steam- 
vessels ; it was a treck-schuyt, and was drawn by horses. 

Young as I was, there was much connected with this journey 
which highly surprised me, and which brought to my remembrance 
particular scenes described in the book which I now generally 
carried in my bosom. The country was, as I have already said, 
submerged — entirely drowned — no land was visible; the trees 
were growing bolt upright in the flood, whilst farmhouses and 
cottages were standing insulated ; the horses which drew us were 
up to the knees in water, and, on coming to blind pools and 
“ greedy depths,” were not unfrequently swimming, in which case 
the boys or urchins who mounted them sometimes stood, some- 
times knelt, upon the saddle and pillions. No accident, however, 
occurred either to the quadrupeds or bipeds, who appeared 
respectively to be quite au fait in their business, and extricated 
themselves with the greatest ease from places in which Pharaoh 
and all his host would have gone to the bottom. Nightfall 
brought us to Peterborough, and from thence we were not slow 
in reaching the place of our destination. 


CHAPTER IV. 


And a strange place it was, this Norman Cross, and, at the time 
of which I am speaking, a sad cross to many a Norman, being 
what was then styled a French prison, that is, a receptacle for 
captives made in the French war. It consisted, if I remember 
right, of some five or six casernes, very long, and immensely 
high ; each standing isolated from the rest, upon a spot of ground 
which might average ten acres, and which was fenced round with 
lofty palisades, the whole being compassed about by a towering 
wall, beneath which, at intervals, on both sides sentinels were 
stationed, whilst, outside, upon the field, stood commodious 
wooden barracks, capable of containing two regiments of infantry, 
intended to serve as guards upon the captives. Such was the 
station or prison at Norman Cross, where some six thousand 
French and other foreigners, followers of the grand Corsican, 
were now immured. 

What a strange appearance had those mighty casernes, with their 
blank blind walls, without windows or grating, and their slanting 
roofs, out of which, through orifices where the tiles had been 
removed, would be protruded dozens of grim heads, feasting their 
prison-sick eyes on the wide expanse of country unfolded from 
that airy height. Ah ! there was much misery in those casernes ; 
and from those roofs, doubtless, many a wistful look was turned in 
the direction of lovely France. Much had the poor inmates to 
endure, and much to complain of, to the disgrace of England be 
it said — of England, in general so kind and bountiful. Rations 
of carrion meat, and bread from which I have seen the very 
hounds occasionally turn away, were unworthy entertainment 
even for the most ruffian enemy, when helpless and a captive; 
and such, alas ! was the fare in those casernes. And then, those 
visits, or rather ruthless inroads, called in the slang of the place 1 
“straw-plait hunts,” when, in pursuit of a contraband article, 
which the prisoners, in order to procure themselves a few of the 
necessaries and comforts of existence, were in the habit of making, 


1 MS., " in regimental slang ”, 

( 2 3 ) 


24 


LA VENGRO. 


[1810-11. 


red-coated battalions were marched into the prisons, who, with 
the bayonet’s point, carried havoc and ruin into every poor 
convenience which ingenious wretchedness had been endeavour- 
ing to raise around it; and then the triumphant exit with the 
miserable booty ; and, worst of all, the accursed bonfire, on the 
barrack parade, of the plait contraband, beneath the view of the 
glaring eyeballs from those lofty roofs, amidst the hurrahs of the 
troops, frequently drowned in the curses poured down from above 
like a tempest-shower, or in the terrific war-whoop of “ Vive 
l Empereur ! ” 

It was midsummer when we arrived at this place, and the 
weather, which had for a long time been wet and gloomy, now 
became bright and glorious. I was subjected to but little control, 
and passed my time pleasantly enough, principally in wandering 
about the neighbouring country. It was flat and somewhat fenny, 
a district more of pasture than agriculture, and not very thickly 
inhabited. I soon became well acquainted with it. At the 
distance of two miles from the station was a large lake, styled in 
the dialect of the country a “ mere,” about whose borders tall 
reeds were growing in abundance. This was a frequent haunt of 
mine; but my favourite place of resort was a wild sequestered 
spot at a somewhat greater distance. Here, surrounded with 
woods, and thick groves, was the seat of some ancient family, 
deserted by the proprietor, and only inhabited by a rustic servant 
or two. A place more solitary and wild could scarcely be 
imagined ; the garden and walks were overgrown with weeds and 
briars, and the unpruned woods were so tankled as to be almost 
impervious. About this domain I would wander till overtaken 
by fatigue, and then I would sit down with my back against some 
beech, elm or stately alder tree, and, taking out my book, would 
pass hours in a state of unmixed enjoyment, my eyes now fixed 
on the wondrous pages, now glancing at the sylvan scene around ; 
and sometimes I would drop the book and listen to the voice of 
the rooks and wild pigeons, and not unfrequently to the croaking 
of multitudes of frogs from the neighbouring swamps and fens. 

In going to and from this place I frequently passed a tall, 
elderly individual, dressed in rather a quaint fashion, with a skin 
cap on his head and stout gaiters on his legs ; on his shoulders 
hung a moderate sized leathern sack ; he seemed fond of loitering 
near sunny banks, and of groping amidst furze and low scrubby 
bramble bushes, of which there were plenty in the neighbourhood 
of Norman Cross. Once I saw him standing in the middle of a 
dusty road, looking intently at a large mark which seemed to have 


i8io-ii.] 


THE SNAKE HUNTER. 


25 


been drawn across it, as if by a walking-stick. “ He must have 
been a large one,” the old man muttered half to himself, “ or he 
would not have left such a trail, I wonder if he is near ; he seems 
to have moved this way.” He then went behind some bushes 
which grew on the right side of the road, and appeared to be 
in quest of something, moving behind the bushes with his head 
downwards, and occasionally striking their roots with his foot. 
At length he exclaimed, “ Here he is ! ” and forthwith I saw him 
dart amongst the bushes. There was a kind of scuffling noise, 
the rustling of branches, and the crackling of dry sticks. “I 
have him ! ” said the man at last ; “ I have got him ! ” and 
presently he made his appearance about twenty yards down the 
road, holding a large viper in his hand. “ What do you think of 
that, my boy ? ” said he, as I went up to him ; “ what do you 
think of catching such a thing as that with the naked hand?” 
“What do I think?” said I. “Why, that I could do as much 
myself.” “You do,” said the man, “do you? Lord! how the 
young people in these days are given to conceit; it did not 
use to be so in my time ; when I was a child, childer knew 
how to behave themselves ; but the childer of these days are full 
of conceit, full of froth, like the mouth of this viper ” ; and with 
his forefinger and thumb he squeezed a considerable quantity of 
foam from the jaws of the viper down upon the road. “The 
childer of these days are a generation of — God forgive me, what 
was I about to say ! ” said the old man ; and opening his bag he 
thrust the reptile into it, which appeared far from empty. I 
passed on. As I was returning, towards the evening, I overtook 
the old man, who was wending in the same direction. “ Good- 
evening to you, sir,” said I, taking off a cap which I wore on my 
head. “ Good-evening,” said the old man ; and then, looking at 
me, “ How’s this ? ” said he, “ you ar’n’t, sure, the child I met in 
the morning?” “Yes,” said I, “I am; what makes you doubt 
it?” “Why, you were then all froth and conceit,” said the old 
man, “and now you take off your cap to me.” “I beg your 
pardon,” said I, “ if I was frothy and conceited ; it ill becomes a 
child like me to be so.” “That’s true, dear,” said the old man ; 
“well, as you have begged my pardon, I truly forgive you.” 
“Thank you,” said I; “have you caught any more of those 
things?” “Only four or five,” said the old man; “they are 
getting scarce, though this used to be a great neighbourhood for 
them.” “And what do you do with them?” said I; “do you 
carry them home and play with them ! ” “I sometimes play with 
one or two that I tame,” said the old man ; “ but I hunt them 


26 


LA VENGRO . 


[1810-11. 


mostly for the fat which they contain, out of which I make unguents 
which are good for various sore troubles, especially for the 
rheumatism.” “And do you get your living by hunting these 
creatures?” I demanded. “ Not altogether,” said the old man; 
“besides being a viper-hunter, I am what they call a herbalist, 
one who knows the virtue of particular herbs ; I gather them at 
the proper season, to make medicines with for the sick.” “ And do 
you live in the neighbourhood?” I demanded. “You seem very 
fond of asking questions, child. No, I do not live in this 
neighbourhood in particular, I travel about ; I have not been in 
this neighbourhood till lately for some years.” 

From this time the old man and myself formed an acquaint- 
ance ; I often accompanied him in his wanderings about the 
neighbourhood, and on two or three occasions assisted him in 
catching the reptiles which he hunted. He generally carried a 
viper with him which he had made quite tame, and from which 
he had extracted the poisonous fangs ; it would dance and perform 
various kinds of tricks. He was fond of telling me anecdotes 
connected with his adventures with the reptile species. “ But,” 
said he one day, sighing, “ I must shortly give up this business, I 
am no longer the man I was, I am become timid, and when a 
person is timid in viper-hunting he had better leave off, as it is 
quite clear his virtue is leaving him. I got a fright some years 
ago, which I am quite sure I shall never get the better of ; my 
hand has been shaky more or less ever since.” “ What frightened 
you?” said I. “I had better not tell you,” said the old man, 
“ or you may be frightened too, lose your virtue, and be no longer 
good for the business.” “ I don’t care,” said I ; “ I don’t intend 
to follow the business ; I dare say I shall be an officer, like my 
father.” “ Well,” said the old man, “ I once saw the king of the 

vipers, and since then ” “The king of the vipers ! ” said I, 

interrupting him; “have the vipers a king?” “As sure as we 
have,” said the old man, “as sure as we have King George 
to rule over us, have these reptiles a king to rule over them.” 
“ And where did you see him ? ” said I. “ I will tell you,” said 
the old man, “though I don’t like talking about the matter. 
It may be about seven years ago that I happened to be far down 
yonder to the west, on the other side of England, nearly two hun- 
dred miles from here, following my business. It was a very sultry 
day, I remember, and I had been out several hours catching 
creatures. It might be about three o’clock in the afternoon, 
when I found myself on some heathy land near the sea, on the 
ridge of a hill, the side of which, nearly as far down as the seg, 


i8io-ii.] 


KING OF THE VIPERS. 


27 


was heath; but on the top there was arable ground, which had 
been planted, and from which the harvest had been gathered — 
oats or barley, I know not which — but I remember that the 
ground was covered with stubble. Well, about three o’clock, as 
I told you before, what with the heat of the day and from having 
walked about for hours in a lazy way, I felt very tired; so I 
determined to have a sleep, and I laid myself down, my head just 
on the ridge of the hill, towards the field, and my body over the 
side down amongst the heath ; my bag, which was nearly filled 
with creatures, lay at a little distance from my face ; the creatures 
were struggling in it, I remember, and I thought to myself, how 
much more comfortably off I was than they ; I was taking my ease 
on the nice open hill, cooled with the breezes, whilst they were in 
the nasty close bag, coiling about one another, and breaking their 
very hearts, all to no purpose ; and I felt quite comfortable and 
happy in the thought, and little by little closed my eyes, and fell 
into the sweetest snooze that ever I was in in all my life; and 
there I lay over the hill’s side, with my head half in the field, I 
don’t know how long, all dead asleep. At last it seemed to me 
that I heard a noise in my sleep, something like a thing moving, 
very faint, however, far away ; then it died, and then it came again 
upon my ear as I slept, and now it appeared almost as if I heard 
crackle, crackle ; then it died again, or I became yet more dead 
asleep than before, I know not which, but I certainly lay some 
time without hearing it. All of a sudden I became awake, and 
there was I, on the ridge of the hill, with my cheek on the ground 
towards the stubble, with a noise in my ear like that of something 
moving towards me, amongst the stubble of the field ; well, I lay 
a moment or two listening to the noise, and then I became 
frightened, for I did not like the noise at all, it sounded so odd ; 
so I rolled myself on my belly, and looked towards the stubble. 
Mercy upon us ! there was a huge snake, or rather a dreadful 
viper, for it was all yellow and gold, moving towards me, bearing 
its head about a foot and a half above the ground, the dry stubble 
crackling beneath its outrageous belly. It might be about five 
yards off when I first saw it, making straight towards me, child, 
as if it would devour me. I lay quite still, for I was stupefied 
with horror, whilst the creature came still nearer ; and now it was 
nearly upon me, when it suddenly drew back a little, and then — 
what do you think ? — it lifted its head and chest high in the air, 
and high over my face as I looked up, flickering at me with its 
tongue as if it would fly at my face. Child, what I felt at that 
moment I can scarcely say, but it was a sufficient punishment for 
all the sins I ever committed ; and there we two were, I looking 


28 


LA VENGRO. 


[1810-11. 


up at the viper, and the viper looking down upon me, flickering 
at me with its tongue. It was only the kindness of God that 
saved me : all at once there was a loud noise, the report of a gun, 
for a fowler was shooting at a covey of birds, a little way off in the 
stubble. Whereupon the viper sunk its head, and immediately 
made off over the ridge of the hill, down in the direction of the 
sea. As it passed by me, however — and it passed close by me — 
it hesitated a moment, as if it was doubtful whether it should not 
seize me ; it did not, however, but made off down the hill. It has 
often struck me that he was angry with me, and came upon me 
unawares for presuming to meddle with his people, as I have always 
been-in the habit of doing.” 

“ But,” said I, “how do you know that it was the king of the 
vipers? ” 

“ How do I know?” said the old man, “who else should it 
be ? There was as much difference between it and other reptiles 
as between King George and other people.” 

“ Is King George, then, different from other people ? ” I 
demanded. 

“ Of course,” said the old man ; “ I have never seen him 
myself, but I have heard people say that he is a ten times greater 
man than other folks ; indeed, it stands to reason that he must be 
different from the rest, else people would not be so eager to see 
him. Do you think, child, that people would be fools enough to 
run a matter of twenty or thirty miles to see the king, provided 
King George ” 

“ Haven’t the French a king? I demanded. 

“Yes,” said the old man, “ or something much the same, and 
a queer one he is ; not quite so big as King George, they say, but 
quite as terrible a fellow. What of him ? ” 

“ Suppose he should come to Norman Cross ! ” 

“ What should he do at Norman Cross, child ? ” 

“ Why, you were talking about the vipers in your bag breaking 
their hearts, and so on, and their king coming to help them. 
Now, suppose the French king should hear of his people being in 
trouble at Norman Cross, and ” 

“ He can’t come, child,” said the old man, rubbing his hands, 
“the water lies between. The French don’t like the water; 
neither vipers nor Frenchmen take kindly to the water, child.” 

When the old man left the country, which he did a few days 
after the conversation which I have just related, he left me the 
reptile which he had tamed and rendered quite harmless by 
removing the fangs. I was in the habit of feeding it with milk, 
and frequently carried it abroad with me in my walks. 


CHAPTER V. 


One day it happened that, being on my rambles, I entered a green 
lane which I had never seen before ; at first it was rather narrow, 
but as I advanced it became considerably wider ; in the middle was 
a drift-way with deep ruts, but right and left was a space carpeted 
with a sward of trefoil and clover ; there was no lack of trees, chiefly 
ancient oaks, which, flinging out their arms from either side, nearly 
formed a canopy, and afforded a pleasing shelter from the rays of 
the sun, which was burning fiercely above. Suddenly a group of 
objects attracted my attention. Beneath one of the largest of the 
trees, upon the grass, was a kind of low tent or booth, from the top 
of which a thin smoke was curling ; beside it stood a couple of light 
carts, whilst two or three lean horses or ponies were cropping the 
herbage which was growing nigh. Wondering to whom this odd 
tent could belong, I advanced till I was close before it, when I 
found that it consisted of two tilts, like those of waggons, placed 
upon the ground and fronting each other, connected behind by a 
sail or large piece of canvas, which was but partially drawn across 
the top ; upon the ground, in the intervening space, was a fire, 
over which, supported by a kind of iron crowbar, hung a caldron. 
My advance had been so noiseless as not to alarm the inmates, 
who consisted of a man and woman, who sat apart, one on each 
side of the fire ; they were both busily employed — the man was 
carding plaited straw, whilst the woman seemed to be rubbing 
something with a white powder, some of which lay on a plate 
beside her. Suddenly the man looked up, and, perceiving me, 
uttered a strange kind of cry, and the next moment both the 
woman and himself were on their feet and rushing upon me. 

I retreated a few steps, yet without turning to flee. I was 
not, however, without apprehension, which, indeed, the appear- 
ance of these two people was well calculated to inspire. The 
woman was a stout figure, seemingly between thirty and forty; 
she wore no cap, and her long hair fell on either side of her 
head, like horse-tails, half-way down her waist ; her skin was 
dark and swarthy, like that of a toad, and the expression of her 
countenance was particularly evil ; her arms were bare, and her 

( 2 9 ) 


30 


LA VENGRO. 


[1810-11. 


bosom was but half-concealed by a slight bodice, below which she 
wore a coarse petticoat, her only other article of dress. The man 
was somewhat younger, but of a figure equally wild ; his frame 
was long and lathy, but his arms were remarkably short, his neck 
was rather bent, he squinted slightly, and his mouth was much 
awry ; his complexion was dark, but, unlike that of the woman, 
was more ruddy than livid ; there was a deep scar on his cheek, 
something like the impression of a halfpenny. The dress was 
quite in keeping with the figure : in his hat, which was slightly 
peaked, was stuck a peacock’s feather ; over a waistcoat of hide, 
untanned and with the hair upon it, he wore a rough jerkin of 
russet hue ; smallclothes of leather, which had probably once 
belonged to a soldier, but with which pipeclay did not seem to 
have come in contact for many a year, protected his lower man 
as far as the knee ; his legs were cased in long stockings of blue 
worsted, and on his shoes he wore immense old-fashioned buckles. 

Such were the two beings who now came rushing upon me ; 
the man was rather in advance, brandishing a ladle in his hand. 

“ So I have caught you at last,” said he ; “ I’ll teach ye, you 
young highwayman, to come skulking about my properties ! ” 
Young as I was, I remarked that his manner of speaking was 
different from that of any people with whom I had been in the 
habit of associating. It was quite as strange as his appearance, 
and yet it nothing resembled the foreign English which I had 
been in the habit of hearing through the palisades of the prison ; 
he could scarcely be a foreigner. 

“ Your properties ! ” said I ; “ I am in the King’s Lane. Why 
did you put them there, if you did not wish them to be seen ? ” 

“ On the spy,” said the woman, “ hey? I’ll drown him in the 
sludge in the toad-pond over the hedge.” 

“ So we will,” said the man, “ drown him anon in the mud ! ” 
“ Drown me, will you ? ” said I ; “ I should like to see you ! 
What’s all this about ? Was it because I saw you with your 

hands full of straw plait, and my mother there ” 

‘'Yes,” said the woman ; “what was I about ?” 

Myself. How should I know ? Making bad money, perhaps ! 
And it will be as well here to observe, that at this time there 
was much bad money in circulation in the neighbourhood, 
generally supposed to be fabricated by the prisoners, so that this 
false coin and straw plait formed the standard subjects of 
conversation at Norman Cross. 

“ I’ll strangle thee,” said the beldame, dashing at me. “ Bad 
money, is it ? ” 


i8io-ii.] 


EGYPTIANS. 


3i 


“ Leave him to me, wifelkin,” said the man, interposing ; “ you 
shall now see how I’ll baste him down the lane.” 

Myself. I tell you what, my chap, you had better put down 
that thing of yours ; my father lies concealed within my tepid 
breast, and if to me you offer any harm or wrong, I’ll call him 
forth to help me with his forked tongue. 

Man. What do you mean, ye Bengui’s bantling? I never 
heard such discourse in all my life ; playman's speech or French- 
man’s talk — which, I wonder ? Your father ! tell the mumping 
villain that if he comes near my fire I’ll serve him out as I will 
you. Take that — Tiny Jesus! what have we got here? Oh, 
delicate Jesus ! what is the matter with the child ? 

I had made a motion which the viper understood ; and now, 
partly disengaging itself from my bosom, where it had lain perdu, 
it raised its head to a level with my face, and stared upon my 
enemy with its glittering eyes. 

The man stood like one transfixed, and the ladle with which 
he had aimed a blow at me, now hung in the air like the hand 
which held it ; his mouth was extended, and his cheeks became of 
a pale yellow, save alone that place which bore the mark which I 
have already described, and this shone now portentously, like fire. 
He stood in this manner for some time ; at last the ladle fell from 
his hand, and its falling appeared to rouse him from his stupor. 

“ I say, wifelkin,” said he in a faltering tone, “ did you ever 
see the like of this here ? ” 

But the woman had retreated to the tent, from the entrance of 
which her loathly face was now thrust, with an expression partly 
of terror and partly of curiosity. After gazing some time longer 
at the viper and myself, the man stooped down and took up the 
ladle ; then, as if somewhat more assured, he moved to the tent, 
where he entered into conversation with the beldame in a low voice. 
Of their discourse, though I could hear the greater part of it, I 
understood not a single word ; and I wondered what it could be, 
for I knew by the sound that it was not French. At last the man, 
in a somewhat louder tone, appeared to put a question to the 
woman, who nodded her head affirmatively, and in a moment or 
two produced a small stool, which she delivered to him. He 
placed it on the ground, close by the door of the tent, first rubbing 
it with his sleeve, as if for the purpose of polishing its surface. 

Man. Now, my precious little gentleman, do sit down here 
by the poor people’s tent ; we wish to be civil in our slight way. 
Don’t be angry, and say no; but look kindly upon us, and 
satisfied, my precious little God Almighty. 


32 


LA VENGRO. 


[1810-11. 


Woman. Yes, my gorgious angel, sit down by the poor bodies’ 
fire, and eat a sweetmeat. We want to ask you a question or two ; 
only first put that serpent away. 

Myself. I can sit down, and bid the serpent go to sleep, that’s 
easy enough ; but as for eating a sweetmeat, how can I do that ? 
I have not got one, and where am I to get it ? 

Woman. Never fear, my tiny tawny, we can give you one, 
such as you never ate, I dare say, however far you may have come 
from. 

The serpent sunk into its usual resting-place, and I sat down 
on the stool. The woman opened a box, and took out a strange 
little basket or hamper, not much larger than a man’s fist, and 
formed of a delicate kind of matting. It was sewed at the top ; 
but, ripping it open with a knife, she held it to me, and I saw, to 
my surprise, that it contained candied fruits of a dark green hue, 
tempting enough to one of my age. “ There, my tiny,” said she ; 
“ taste, and tell me how you like them.” 

“ Very much,” said I ; “ where did you get them ? ” 

The beldame leered upon me for a moment, then, nodding 
her head thrice, with a knowing look, said : “ Who knows better 
than yourself, my tawny ? ” 

Now, I knew nothing about the matter ; but I saw that these 
strange people had conceived a very high opinion of the abilities 
of their visitor, which I was nothing loath to encourage. I there- 
fore answered boldly, “ Ah ! who indeed ! ” 

“ Certainly,” said the man ; “ who should know better than 
yourself, or who so well ? And now my tiny one, let me ask you 
one thing — you didn’t come to do us any harm ? ” 

“No,” said I, “I had no dislike to you; though, if you were 
to meddle with me ” 

Man. Of course, my gorgious, of course you would ; and 
quite right too. Meddle with you ! — what right have we ? I 
should say it would not be quite safe. I see how it is; you 
are one of them there; — and he bent his head towards his left 
shoulder. 

Myself. Yes, I am one of them — for I thought he was alluding 
to the soldiers, — you had best mind what you are about, I can 
tell you. 

Man. Don’t doubt we will for our own sake ; Lord bless you, 
wifelkin, only think that we should see one of them there when 
we least thought about it. Well, I have heard of such things, 
though I never thought to see one; however, seeing is be- 
lieving. Well ! now you are come, and are not going to do 


i8io-ii.] 


THE EGYPTIANS. 


33 


us any mischief, I hope you will stay ; you can do us plenty of 
good if you will. 

Myself. What good can I do you ? 

Man. What good? plenty ! Would you not bring us luck ? I 
have heard say, that one of them there always does, if it will but 
settle down. Stay with us, you shall have a tilted cart all to 
yourself if you like. We’ll make you our little God Almighty, 
and say our prayers to you every morning ! 

Myself. That would be nice; and if you were to give me 
plenty of these things, I should have no objection. But what 
would my father say? I think he would hardly let me. 

Man. Why not ? he would be with you ; and kindly would 
we treat him. Indeed, without your father you would be nothing 
at all. 

Myself That’s true ; but I do not think he could be spared 
from his regiment. I have heard him say that they could do 
nothing without him. 

Man. His regiment ! What are you talking about ? — what 
does the child mean ? 

Myself. What do I mean ! why, that my father is an officer- 
man at the barracks yonder, keeping guard over the French 
prisoners. 

Man. Oh ! then that sap is not your father ! 

Myself. What, the snake ? Why, no ! Did you think he was ? 

Man. To be sure we did. Didn’t you tell me so? 

Myself. Why, yes; but who would have thought you would 
have believed it? It is a tame one. I hunt vipers and tame 
them. 

Man. O — h ! 

“O — h !” grunted the woman, “that’s it, is it?” 

The man and woman, who during this conversation had 
resumed their former positions within the tent, looked at each 
other with a queer look of surprise, as if somewhat disconcerted 
at what they now heard. They then entered into discourse with 
each other in the same strange tongue which had already puzzled 
me. At length the man looked me in the face, and said, some- 
what hesitatingly, “so you are not one of them there, after 
all?” 

Myself. One of them there? I don’t know what you mean. 

Man. Why, we have been thinking you were a goblin — a 
devilkin ! However, I see how it is : you are a sap-engro, a 
chap who catches snakes, and plays tricks with them ! Well, it 
comes very nearly to the same thing; and if you please to list 


34 


LA VENGRO. 


[1810-11. 


with us, and bear us pleasant company, we shall be glad of you. 
I’d take my oath upon it that we might make a mort of money by 
you and that sap, and the tricks it could do; and, as you seem 
fly to everything, I shouldn’t wonder if you would make a prime 
hand at telling fortunes. 

“ I shouldn’t wonder,” said I. 

Man . Of course. And you might still be our God Almighty, 
or at any rate our clergyman, so you should live in a tilted cart 
by yourself and say prayers to us night and morning — to wifelkin 
here, and all our family; there’s plenty of us when we are all 
together; as I said before, you seem fly, I shouldn’t wonder if 
you could read. 

“Oh, yes!” said I, “I can read;” and, eager to display my 
accomplishments, I took my book out of my pocket, and opening 
it at random, proceeded to read how a certain man whilst 
wandering about a certain solitary island, entered a cave, the 
mouth of which was overgrown with brushwood, and how he 
was nearly frightened to death in that cave by something which 
he saw. 

“ That will do,” said the man ; “ that’s the kind of prayers for 
me and my family, ar’n’t they, wifelkin ? I never heard more deli- 
cate prayers in all my life ! Why, they beat the rubricals hollow ! 
— and here comes my son Jasper . 1 I say, Jasper, here’s a 
young sap-engro that can read, and is more fly than yourself. 
Shake hands with him ; I wish ye to be two brothers.” 

With a swift but stealthy pace Jasper came towards us from 
the farther part of the lane ; on reaching the tent he stood still, 
and looked fixedly upon me as I sat upon the stool; I looked 
fixedly upon him. A queer look had Jasper ; he was a lad of some 
twelve or thirteen years, with long arms, unlike the singular being 
who called himself his father ; his complexion was ruddy, but his 
face was seamed, though it did not bear the peculiar scar which 
disfigured the countenance of the other; nor, though roguish 
enough, a certain evil expression which that of the other bore, 
and which the face of the woman possessed in a yet more remark- 
able degree. For the rest, he wore drab breeches, with certain 
strings at the knee, a rather gay waistcoat, and tolerably white 
shirt ; under his arm he bore a mighty whip of whalebone with 
a brass knob, and upon his head was a hat without either top 
or brim. 

" There, Jasper ! shake hands, with the sap-engro.” 


1 MS., “ Ambrose” throughout the book. 


i8io-ii.] 


JASPER. 


35 


“Can he box, father ?” said Jasper, surveying me rather 
contemptuously. “I should think not, he looks so puny and 
small.” 

“ Hold your peace, fool ! ” said the man ; “ he can do more 
than that — I tell you he’s fly; he carries a sap about, which 
would sting a ninny like you to dead.” 

“ What, a sap-engro ! ” said the boy, with a singular whine, 
and, stooping down, he leered curiously in my face, kindly, 
however, and then patted me on the head. “A sap-engro,” 
he ejaculated ; “ lor ! ” 

“ Yes, and one of the right sort,” said the man ; “lam glad we 
have met with him ; he is going to list with us, and be our clergy- 
man and God Almighty, a’n’t you, my tawny?” 

“I don’t know,” said I; “I must see what my father will say.” 

“Your father; bah!” but here he stopped, for a sound 

was heard like the rapid galloping of a horse, not loud and 
distinct as on a road, but dull and heavy as if upon a grass 
sward ; nearer and nearer it came, and the man, starting up, 
rushed out of the tent, and looked around anxiously. I arose 
from the stool upon which I had been seated, and just at that 
moment, amidst a crashing of boughs and sticks, a man on horse- 
back bounded over the hedge into the lane at a few yards’ distance 
from where we were ; from the impetus of the leap the horse was 
nearly down on his knees ; the rider, however, by dint of vigorous 
handling of the reins, prevented him from falling, and then rode 
up to the tent. “’Tis Nat,” said the man; “what brings him 
here?” The new comer was a stout, burly fellow, about the 
middle age ; he had a savage, determined look, and his face was 
nearly covered over with carbuncles ; he wore a broad slouching 
hat, and was dressed in a grey coat, cut in a fashion which I 
afterwards learnt to be the genuine Newmarket cut, the skirts 
being exceedingly short ; his waistcoat was of red plush, and he 
wore broad corduroy breeches and white top-boots. The steed 
which carried him was of iron grey, spirited and powerful, but 
covered with sweat and foam. The fellow glanced fiercely and 
suspiciously around, and said something to the man of the tent 
in a harsh and rapid voice. A short and hurried conversation 
ensued in the strange tongue. I could not take my eyes off this 
new comer. Oh, that half-jockey half-bruiser countenance, I 
never forgot it ! More than fifteen years afterwards I found 
myself amidst a crowd before Newgate; a gallows was erected, 
and beneath it stood a criminal, a notorious malefactor. I 
recognised him at once; the horseman of the lane is now 


36 


LA VENGRO. 


[i8io-ii # 


beneath the fatal tree, but nothing altered ; still the same man ; 
jerking his head to the right and left with the same fierce and 
under glance, just as if the affairs of this world had the same 
kind of interest to the last ; grey coat of Newmarket cut, plush 
waistcoat, corduroys, and boots, nothing altered ; but the head, 
alas ! is bare and so is the neck. Oh, crime and virtue, virtue 
and crime ! — it was old John Newton, I think, who, when he 
saw a man going to be hanged, said : “ There goes John Newton, 
but for the grace of God ! ” 

But the lane, the lane, all was now in confusion in the lane ; 
the man and woman were employed in striking the tents and in 
making hurried preparations for departure; the boy Jasper was 
putting the harness upon the ponies and attaching them to the 
carts ; and, to increase the singularity of the scene, two or three 
wild-looking women and girls, in red cloaks and immense black 
beaver bonnets, came from I know not what direction, and, after 
exchanging a few words with the others, commenced with fierce 
and agitated gestures to assist them in their occupation. The 
rider meanwhile sat upon his horse, but evidently in a state of 
great impatience ; he muttered curses between his teeth, spurred 
the animal furiously, and then reigned it in, causing it to rear itself 
up nearly perpendicular. At last he said : “ Curse ye, for Romans, 
how slow ye are ! well, it is no business of mine, stay here all day 
if you like ; I have given ye warning, I am off to the big north 
road. However, before I go, you had better give me all you have 
of that.” 

“Truly spoken, Nat, my pal,” said the man; “give it him, 
mother. There it is ; now be off as soon as you please, and rid 
us of evil company.” 

The woman had handed him two bags formed of stocking, 
half full of something heavy, which looked through them for all 
the world like money of some kind. The fellow, on receiving 
them, thrust them without ceremony into the pockets of his coat, 
and then, without a word of farewell salutation, departed at a 
tremendous rate, the hoofs of his horse thundering for a long 
time on the hard soil of the neighbouring road, till the sound 
finally died away in the distance. The strange people were not 
slow in completing their preparations, and then, flogging their 
animals terrifically, hurried away seemingly in the same direction. 

The boy Jasper was last of the band. As he was following 
the rest, he stopped suddenly, and looked on the ground appearing 
to muse ; then, turning round, he came up to me where I was 
standing, leered in my face, and then, thrusting out his hand, he 


i8io-ii.] 


JASPER . 


37 


said, “ Good-bye, Sap, I dare say we shall meet again, remember 
we are brothers, two gentle brothers.” 

Then whining forth, “ What a sap-engro, lor ! ” he gave me a 
parting leer, and hastened away. 

I remained standing in the lane gazing after the retreating 
company. “ A strange set of people,” said I at last, “ I wonder 
who they can be.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


Years passed on, even three years ; during this period I had 
increased considerably in stature and in strength, and, let us 
hope, improved in mind ; for I had entered on the study of the 
Latin language. The very first person to whose care I was 
entrusted for the acquisition of Latin was an old friend of my 
father’s, a clergyman who kept a seminary at a town the very 
next we visited after our departure from “the Cross”. Under 
his instruction, however, I continued only a few weeks, as we 
speedily left the place. “Captain,” said this divine, when my 
father came to take leave of him on the eve of our departure, “ I 
have a friendship for you, and therefore wish to give you a piece 
of advice concerning this son of yours. You are now removing 
him from my care ; you do wrong, but we will let that pass. 
Listen to me : there is but one good school book in the world — 
the one I use in my seminary — Lilly’s Latin Grammar, in which 
your son has already made some progress. If you are anxious 
for the success of your son in life, for the correctness of his 
conduct and the soundness of his principles, keep him to Lilly’s 
Grammar. If you can by any means, either fair or foul, induce 
him to get by heart Lilly’s Latin Grammar, you may set your 
heart at rest with respect to him ; I, myself, will be his warrant. 
I never yet knew a boy that was induced, either by fair means or 
foul, to learn Lilly’s Latin Grammar by heart, who did not turn 
out a man, provided he lived long enough. 

My father, who did not understand the classical languages, 
received with respect the advice of his old friend, and from that 
moment conceived the highest opinion of Lilly’s Latin Grammar. 
During three years I studied Lilly’s Latin Grammar under the 
tuition of various schoolmasters, for I travelled with the regiment, 
and in every town in which we were stationary I was invariably 
(God bless my father !) sent to the classical academy of the place. 
It chanced, by good fortune, that in the generality of these schools 
the grammar of Lilly was in use ; when, however, that was not the 
case, it made no difference in my educational course, my father 
always stipulating with the masters that I should be daily examined 


LILLY'S GRAMMAR. 


39 


1812.] 


in Lilly. At the end of the three years I had the whole by heart ; 
you had only to repeat the first two or three words of any sentence 
in any part of the book, and forthwith I would open cry, commenc- 
ing without blundering and hesitation, and continue till you 
were glad to beg me to leave off, with many expressions of 
admiration at my proficiency in the Latin language. Sometimes, 
however, to convince you how well I merited these encomiums, I 
would follow you to the bottom of the stair, and even into the 
street, repeating in a kind of sing-song measure the sonorous lines 
of the golden schoolmaster. If I am here asked whether I under- 
stood anything of what I had got by heart, I reply — “ Never mind, 
I understand it all now, and believe that no one ever yet got Lilly’s 
Latin Grammar by heart when young, who repented of the feat at 
a mature age ”. 

And when my father saw that I had accomplished my task, 
he opened his mouth, and said, “Truly this is more than I 
expected. I did not think that there had been so much in you, 
either of application or capacity ; you have now learnt all that is 

necessary, if my friend Dr. B ’s opinion was sterling, as I 

have no doubt it was. You are still a child, however, and must 
yet go to school, in order that you may be kept out of evil com- 
pany. Perhaps you may still contrive, now you have exhausted 
the barn, to pick up a grain or two in the barnyard. You are still 
ignorant of figures, I believe, not that I would mention figures in 
the same day with Lilly’s Grammar.” 

These words were uttered in a place called , in the north, 

or in the road to the north, to which, for some time past, our 
corps had been slowly advancing. I was sent to the school of the 
place, which chanced to be a day school. It was a somewhat 
extraordinary one, and a somewhat extraordinary event occurred to 
me within its walls. 

It occupied part of the farther end of a small plain, or square, 
at the outskirts of the town, close to some extensive bleaching 
fields. It was a long low building of one room, with no upper 
storey ; on the top was a kind of wooden box, or sconce, which I 
at first mistook for a pigeon-house, but which in reality contained a 
bell, to which was attached a rope, which, passing through the 
ceiling, hung dangling in the middle of the school-room. I am 
the more particular in mentioning this appurtenance, as I had 
soon occasion to scrape acquaintance with it in a manner not 
very agreeable to my feelings. The master was very proud of his 
bell, if I might judge from the fact of his eyes being frequently 
turned to that part of the ceiling from which the rope depended. 


40 


LA VENGRO. 


[1812. 


Twice every day, namely, after the morning and evening tasks 
had been gone through, were the boys rung out of school by the 
monotonous jingle of this bell. This ringing out was rather a 
lengthy affair, for, as the master was a man of order and method, 
the boys were only permitted to go out of the room one by one ; 
and as they were rather numerous, amounting, at least, to one 
hundred, and were taught to move at a pace of suitable decorum, 
at least a quarter of an hour elapsed from the commencement of 
the march before the last boy could make his exit. The office 
of bell-ringer was performed by every boy successively ; and it so 
happened that, the very first day of my attendance at the school, 
the turn to ring the bell had, by order of succession, arrived at 
the place which had been allotted to me ; for the master, as I 
have already observed, was a man of method and order, and every 
boy had a particular seat, to which he became a fixture as long as 
he continued at the school. 

So, upon this day, when the tasks were done and completed, 
and the boys sat with their hats and caps in their hands, anxiously 
expecting the moment of dismissal, it was suddenly notified to me, 
by the urchins who sat nearest to me, that I must get up and ring 
the bell. Now, as this was the first time that I had been at the 
school, I was totally unacquainted with the process, which I had 
never seen, and, indeed, had never heard of till that moment. I 
therefore sat still, not imagining it possible that any such duty could 
be required of me. But now, with not a little confusion, I perceived 
that the eyes of all the boys in the school were fixed upon me. 
Presently there were nods and winks in the direction of the bell- 
rope ; and, as these produced no effect, uncouth visages were 
made, like those of monkeys when enraged ; teeth were gnashed, 
tongues thrust out, and even fists were bent at me. The master, 
who stood at the end of the room, with a huge ferule under his 
arm, bent full upon me a look of stern appeal ; and the ushers, 
of whom there were four, glared upon me, each from his own 
particular corner, as I vainly turned, in one direction and another, 
in search of one reassuring look. 

But now, probably in obedience to a sign from the master, 
the boys in my immediate neighbourhood began to maltreat me. 
Some pinched me with their fingers, some buffeted me, whilst 
others pricked me with pins or the points of compasses. These 
arguments were not without effect. I sprang from my seat, and 
endeavoured to escape along a double line of benches, thronged 
with boys of all ages, from the urchin of six or seven, to the 
nondescript of sixteen or seventeen. It was like running the 


THE SCHOOL BELL. 


4 * 


1812.] 


gauntlet ; every one, great or small, pinching, kicking, or other- 
wise maltreating me as I passed by. 

Goaded on in this manner, I at length reached the middle of 
the room, where dangled the bell-rope, the cause of all my 
sufferings. I should have passed it — for my confusion was so 
great, that I was quite at a loss to comprehend what all this could 
mean, and almost believed myself under the influence of an ugly 
dream— but now the boys who were seated in advance in the 
row, arose with one accord, and barred my farther progress ; and 
one, doubtless more sensible that the rest, seizing the rope, thrust 
it into my hand. I now began to perceive that the dismissal of 
the school, and my own release from torment, depended upon this 
self same rope. I therefore in a fit of desperation, pulled it once 
or twice, and then left off, naturally supposing that I had done 
quite enough. The boys who sat next the door, no sooner heard 
the bell, than, rising from their seats, they moved out at the door. 
The bell, however, had no sooner ceased to jingle, than they 
stopped short, and, turning round, stared at the master, as much 
as to say, ‘‘What are we to do now?” This was too much 
for the patience of the man of method, which my previous 
stupidity had already nearly exhausted. Dashing forward into 
the middle of the room, he struck me violently on the shoulders 
with his ferule, and snatching the rope out of my hand, exclaimed, 
with a stentorian voice, and genuine Yorkshire accent, “ Prodigy 
of ignorance ! dost not even know how to ring a bell ? Must I 
myself instruct thee ? ” He then commenced pulling at the bell 
with such violence, that long before half the school was dismissed 
the rope broke, and the rest of the boys had to depart without 
their accustomed music. 

But I must not linger here, though I could say much about 
the school and the pedagogue highly amusing and diverting, 
which, however, I suppress, in order to make way for matters of 
yet greater interest. On we went, northwards, northwards ! and, 
as we advanced, I saw that the country was becoming widely 
different from those parts of merry England in which we had 
previously travelled. It was wilder and less cultivated, and more 
broken with hills and hillocks. The people, too, of these regions 
appeared to partake of something of the character of their country. 
They were coarsely dressed ; tall and sturdy in frame ; their voices 
were deep and guttural ; and the half of the dialect which they 
spoke was unintelligible to my ears. 

I often wondered where we could be going, for I was at this 
time about as ignorant of geography as I was of most other things. 


42 


LA VENGRO. 


[1813. 


However, I held my peace, asked no questions, and patiently 
awaited the issue. 

Northward, northward, still ! And it came to pass that, one 
morning, I found myself extended on the bank of a river. It was 
a beautiful morning of early spring; small white clouds were 
floating in the heaven, occasionally veiling the countenance of 
the sun, whose light, as they retired, would again burst forth, 
coursing like a race-horse over the scene — and a goodly scene it 
was ! Before me, across the water, on an eminence, stood a white 
old city, surrounded with lofty walls, above which rose the tops of 
tall houses, with here and there a church or steeple. To my right 
hand was a long and massive bridge, with many arches and of 
antique architecture, which traversed the river. The river was a 
noble one, the broadest that I had hitherto seen. Its waters, of 
a greenish tinge, poured with impetuosity beneath the narrow 
arches to meet the sea, close at hand, as the boom of the billows 
breaking distinctly upon a beach declared. There were songs 
upon the river from the fisher-barks ; and occasionally a chorus, 
plaintive and wild, such as I had never heard before, the words 
of which I did not understand, but which, at the present time, 
down the long avenue of years, seem in memory’s ear to sound 
like “ Horam, coram, dago ”. Several robust fellows were near me, 
some knee-deep in water, employed in hauling the seine upon the 
strand. Huge fish were struggling amidst the meshes — princely 
salmon, — their brilliant mail of blue and silver flashing in the 
morning beam ; so goodly and gay a scene, in truth, had never 
greeted my boyish eye. 

And, as I gazed upon the prospect, my bosom began to heave, 
and my tears to trickle. Was it the beauty of the scene which 
gave rise to these emotions ? Possibly ; for though a poor 
ignorant child — a half- wild creature — I was not insensible to the 
loveliness of nature, and took pleasure in the happiness and 
handiworks of my fellow-creatures. Yet, perhaps, in something 
more deep and mysterious the feelings which then pervaded me 
might originate. Who can lie down on Elvir Hill without 
experiencing something of the sorcery of the place ? Flee from 
Elvir Hill, young swain, or the maids of Elle will have power 
over you, and you will go elf-wild ! — so say the Danes. I had 
unconsciously laid myself down upon haunted ground ; and I am 
willing to imagine that what I then experienced was rather 
connected with the world of spirits and dreams than with what I 
actually saw and heard around me. Surely the elves and genii of 
the place were conversing, by some inscrutable means, with the 


BER WICK - UPON-T WEED. 


43 


1813.] 


principle of intelligence lurking within the poor uncultivated clod ! 
Perhaps to that ethereal principle, the wonders of the past, as 
connected with that stream, the glories of the present, and even 
the history of the future, were at that moment being revealed. 
Of how many feats of chivalry had those old walls been witness, 
when hostile kings contended for their possession? — how many 
an army from the south and from the north had trod that old 
bridge ? — what red and noble blood had crimsoned those rushing 
waters ? — what strains had been sung, ay, were yet being sung, on 
its banks ? — some soft as Doric reed ; some fierce and sharp as 
those of Norwegian Skaldaglam ; some as replete with wild and 
wizard force as Finland’s runes, singing of Kalevala’s moors, and 
the deeds of Woinomoinen ! Honour to thee, thou island stream ! 
Onward may thou ever roll, fresh and green, rejoicing in thy 
bright past, thy glorious present, and in vivid hope of a triumphant 
future ! Flow on, beautiful one ! — which of the world’s streams 
canst thou envy, with thy beauty and renown? Stately is the 
Danube, rolling in its might through lands romantic with the wild 
exploits of Turk, Polak, and Magyar ! Lovely is the Rhine ! on 
its shelvy banks grows the racy grape; and strange old keeps of 
robber-knights of yore are reflected in its waters, from picturesque 
crags and airy headlands ! — yet neither the stately Danube, nor 
the beauteous Rhine, with all their fame, though abundant, 
needst thou envy, thou pure island stream ! — and far less yon 
turbid river of old, not modern, renown, gurgling beneath the 
walls of what was once proud Rome, towering Rome, Jupiter’s 
town, but now vile Rome, crumbling Rome, Batuscha’s town, far 
less needst thou envy the turbid Tiber of bygone fame, creeping 
sadly to the sea, surcharged with the abominations of modern 
Rome — how unlike to thee, thou pure island stream ! 

And, as I lay on the bank and wept, there drew nigh to me a 
man in the habiliments of a fisher. He was bare-legged, of a 
weather-beaten countenance, and of stature approaching to the 
gigantic. “What is the callant greeting for?” said he, as he 
stopped and surveyed me. “ Has ony body wrought ye ony 
harm ? ” 

“ Not that I know of,” I replied, rather guessing at than 
understanding his question; “ I was crying because I could not 
help it ! I say, old one, what is the name of this river? ” 

“ Hout ! I now see what you was greeting at — at your ain 
ignorance, nae doubt — ’tis very great ! Weel, I will na fash you 
with reproaches, but even enlighten ye, since you seem a decent 
man’s bairn, and you speir a civil question. Yon river is called 


LA VENGRO. 


[1813. 


4 -i 


the Tweed ; and yonder, over the brig, is Scotland. Did ye 
never hear of the Tweed, my bonny man?” 

“ No,” said I, as I rose from the grass, and proceeded to cross 
the bridge to the town at which we had arrived the preceding 
night ; “ I never heard of it ; but now I have seen it, I shall not 
soon forget it ! ” 










CHAPTER VII. 


It was not long before we found ourselves at Edinburgh, or rather 
in the Castle, into which the regiment marched with drums 
beating, colours flying, and a long train of baggage waggons 
behind. The Castle was, as I suppose it is now, a garrison for 
soldiers. Two other regiments were already there; the one an 
Irish, if I remember right, the other a small Highland corps. 

It is hardly necessary to say much about this Castle, which 
everybody has seen ; on which account, doubtless, nobody has 
ever yet thought fit to describe it — at least that I am aware. Be 
this as it may, I have no intention of describing it, and shall 
content myself with observing, that we took up our abode in that 
immense building, or caserne, of modern erection, which occupies 
the entire eastern side of the bold rock on which the Castle stands. 
A gallant caserne it was — the best and roomiest that I had 
hitherto seen — rather cold and windy, it is true, especially in the 
winter, but commanding a noble prospect of a range of distant 
hills, which I was told were “the hieland hills,” and of a broad 
arm of the sea, which I heard somebody say was the Firth of 
Forth. 

My brother, who, for some years past, had been receiving his 
education in a certain celebrated school in England, was now with 
us ; and it came to pass, that one day my father, as he sat at 
table, looked steadfastly on my brother and myself, and then 
addressed my mother : “ During my journey down hither I have 

lost no opportunity of making inquiries about these people, the 
Scotch, amongst whom we now are, and since I have been here I 
have observed them attentively. From what I have heard and 
seen, I should say that upon the whole they are a very decent set 
of people ; they seem acute and intelligent, and I am told that 
their system of education is so excellent, that every person is 
learned — more or less acquainted with Greek and Latin. There 
is one thing, however, connected with them, which is a great 
drawback — the horrid jargon which they speak. However learned 
they may be in Greek and Latin, their English is execrable ; and 
yet I’m told it is not so bad as it was. I was in company the 


46 


LA VENGRO. 


[i8r 3 


other day with an Englishman who has resided here many years. 
We were talking about the country and its people. ‘ I should 
like both very well,’ said I, ‘ were it not for the language. I wish 
sincerely our Parliament, which is passing so many foolish acts 
every year, would pass one to force these Scotch to speak English.’ 

‘ I wish so too,’ said he. ‘ The language is a disgrace to the 
British Government ; but, if you had heard it twenty years ago, 
captain ! — if you had heard it as it was spoken when I first came 
to Edinburgh ! ’ ” 

“ Only custom,” said my mother. “ I dare say the language 
is now what it was then.” 

“ I don’t know,” said my father ; “ though I dare say you are 
right ; it could never have been worse than it is at present. But 
now to the point. Were it not for the language, which, if the 
boys were to pick it up, might ruin their prospects in life, — were 
it not for that, I should very much like to send them to a school 
there is in this place, which everybody talks about — the High 
School, I think they call it. ’Tis said to be the best school in 
the whole island ; but the idea of one’s children speaking Scotch 
— broad Scotch ! I must think the matter over.” 

And he did think the matter over; and the result of his 
deliberation was a determination to send us to the school. Let 
me call thee up before my mind’s eye, High School, to which, 
every morning, the two English brothers took their way from the 
proud old Castle through the lofty streets of the Old Town. 
High School ! — called so, I scarcely know why ; neither lofty in 
thyself, nor by position, being situated in a flat bottom ; oblong 
structure of tawny stone, with many windows fenced with iron 
netting — with thy long hall below, and thy five chambers above, 
for the reception of the five classes, into which the eight hundred 
urchins, who styled thee instructress, were divided. Thy learned 
rector and his four subordinate dominies ; thy strange old porter 
of the tall form and grizzled hair, hight Boee, and doubtless of 
Norse ancestry, as his name declares ; perhaps of the blood of 
Bui hin Digri, the hero of northern song — the Jomsborg Viking 
who clove Thorsteinn Ivfidlangr asunder in the dread sea battle of 
Horunga Vog, and who, when the fight was lost and his own two 
hands smitten off, seized two chests of gold with his bloody 
stumps, and, springing with them into the sea, cried to the scanty 
relics of his crew, “ Overboard now, all Bui’s lads ! ” Yes, I 
remember all about thee, and how at eight of every morn we were 
all gathered together with one accord in the long hall, from which, 
after the litanies had been read (for so I will call them, being an 


HIGH SCHOOL. 


47 


1813.] 


Episcopalian), the five classes from the five sets of benches trotted 
off in long files, one boy after the other, up the five spiral stair- 
cases of stone, each class to its destination ; and well do I 
remember how we of the third sat hushed and still, watched by 
the eye of the dux, until the door opened, and in walked that 
model of a good Scotchman, the shrewd, intelligent, but warm- 
hearted and kind dominie, the respectable Carson. 

And in this school I began to construe the Latin language, 
which I had never done before, notwithstanding my long and 
diligent study of Lilly, which illustrious grammar was not used at 
Edinburgh, nor indeed known. Greek was only taught in the 
fifth or highest class, in which my brother was ; as for myself, I 
never got beyond the third during the two years that I remained 
at this seminary. I certainly acquired here a considerable insight 
in the Latin tongue ; and, to the scandal of my father and horror 
of my mother, a thorough proficiency in the Scotch, which, in 
less than two months, usurped the place of the English, and so 
obstinately maintained its ground, that I still can occasionally 
detect its lingering remains. I did not spend my time unpleasantly 
at this school, though, first of all, I had to pass through an ordeal. 

“Scotland is a better country than England,” said an ugly, 
blear-eyed lad, about a head and shoulders taller than myself, the 
leader of a gang of varlets who surrounded me in the play-ground, 
on the first day, as soon as the morning lesson was over. “Scot- 
land is a far better country than England, in every respect.” 

“Is it?” said I. “Then you ought to be very thankful for 
not having been born in England.” 

“That’s just what I am, ye loon ; and every morning when I 
say my prayers, I thank God for not being an Englishman. The 
Scotch are a much better and braver people than the English.” 

“It may be so,” said I, “for what I know — indeed, till I 
came here, I never heard a word either about the Scotch or their 
country.” 

“Are ye making fun of us, ye English puppy?” said the 
blear-eyed lad ; “ take that ! ” and I was presently beaten black 
and blue. And thus did I first become aware of the difference 
of races and their antipathy to each other. 

“ Bow to the storm, and it shall pass over you.” I held my 
peace, and silently submitted to the superiority of the Scotch — 
in numbers. This was enough ; from an object of persecution I 
soon became one of patronage, especially amongst the champions 
of the class. “ The English,” said the blear-eyed lad, “ though a 
wee bit behind the Scotch in strength and fortitude, are nae to 


4 8 


LA VENGRO. 


[1813. 


be sneezed at, being far ahead of the Irish, to say nothing of the 
French, a pack of cowardly scoundrels. And with regard to the 
English country, it is na Scotland, it is true, but it has its gude 
properties; and, though there is ne’er a haggis in a’ the land, 
there’s an unco deal o’ gowd and siller. I respect England, for 
I have an auntie married there.” 

The Scotch are certainly a most pugnacious people; their 
whole history proves it. Witness their incessant wars with the 
English in the olden time, and their internal feuds, highland and 
lowland, clan with clan, family with family, Saxon with Gael. In 
my time, the school-boys, for want, perhaps, of English urchins 
to contend with, were continually fighting with each other ; every 
noon there was at least one pugilistic encounter, and sometimes 
three. In one month I witnessed more of these encounters than 
I had ever previously seen under similar circumstances in England. 
After all, there was not much harm done. Harm ! what harm 
could result from short chopping blows, a hug, and a tumble? 
I was witness to many a sounding whack, some blood shed, “ a 
blue ee” now and then, but nothing more. In England, on the 
contrary, where the lads were comparatively mild, gentle, and 
pacific, I had been present at more than one death caused by 
blows in boyish combats, in which the oldest of the victors had 
scarcely reached thirteen years ; but these blows were in the 
jugular, given with the full force of the arm shot out horizontally 
from the shoulder. 

But, the Scotch — though by no means proficients in boxing (and 
how should they box, seeing that they have never had a teacher ?) 
— are, I repeat, a most pugnacious people ; at least they were in 
my time. Anything served them, that is, the urchins, as a 
pretence for a fray, or, Dorically speaking, a bicker ; every street 
and close was at feud with its neighbour ; the lads of the school 
were at feud with the young men of the college, whom they pelted 
in winter with snow, and in summer with stones ; and then the 
feud between the Old and New Town ! 

One day I was standing on the ramparts of the castle on the 
south-western side which overhangs the green brae, where it slopes 
down into what was in those days the green swamp or morass, 
called by the natives of Auld Reekie the Nor Loch; it was a 
dark gloomy day, and a thin veil of mist was beginning to settle 
down upon the brae and the morass. I could perceive, however, 
that there was a skirmish taking place in the latter spot. I had 
an indistinct view of two parties — apparently of urchins — and I 
heard whoops and shrill cries. Eager to know the cause of this 


i8i 3 .] 


THE BICKERS . 


49 


disturbance, I left the castle, and descending the brae reached 
the borders of the morass, where was a runnel of water and 
the remains of an old wall, on the other side of which a narrow 
path led across the swamp; upon this path at a little distance 
before me there was “a bicker”. I pushed forward, but had 
scarcely crossed the ruined wall and runnel, when the party 
nearest to me gave way, and in great confusion came running in 
my direction. As they drew nigh, one of them shouted to me, 
“Wha are ye, mon? are ye o’ the Auld Toon?” I made no 
answer. “Ha! ye are o’ the New Toon; De’il tak ye, we’ll 
moorder ye ; ” and the next moment a huge stone sung past my 
head. “ Let me be, ye fule bodies,” said I, “ I’m no of either of 
ye, I live yonder aboon in the castle.” “Ah! ye live in the 
castle ; then ye’re an auld tooner ; come gie us your help, mon, 
and dinna stand there staring like a dunnot, we want help sair 
eneugh. Here are stanes.” 

For my own part I wished for nothing better, and, rushing 
forward, I placed myself at the head of my new associates, and 
commenced flinging stones fast and desperately. The other 
party now gave way in their turn, closely followed by ourselves ; 
I was in the van and about to stretch out my hand to seize the 
hindermost boy of the enemy, when, not being acquainted with 
the miry and difficult paths of the Nor Loch, and in my eagerness 
taking no heed of my footing, I plunged into a quagmire, into which 
I sank as far as my shoulders. Our adversaries no sooner per- 
ceived this disaster, than, setting up a shout, they wheeled round and 
attacked us most vehemently. Had my comrades now deserted 
me, my life had not been worth a straw’s purchase, I should either 
have been smothered in the quag, or, what is more probable, had 
my brains beaten out with stones; but they behaved like true 
Scots, and fought stoutly around their comrade, until I was 
extricated, whereupon both parties retired, the night being near 
at hand. 

“Ye are na a bad hand at flinging stanes,” said the lad 
who first addressed me, as we now returned up the brae ; “ your 
aim is right dangerous, mon, I saw how ye skelpit them, ye 
maun help us agin thae New Toon blackguards at our next 
bicker.” 

So to the next bicker I went, and to many more, which 
speedily followed as the summer advanced ; the party to which I 
had given my help on the first occasion consisted merely of 
outlyers, posted about half way up the hill, for the purpose of 
overlooking the movements of the enemy. 

4 


50 


LA VENGRO . 


[1813 


Did the latter draw nigh in any considerable force, messengers 
were forthwith despatched to the “auld toon,” especially to the 
filthy alleys and closes of the High Street, which forthwith would 
disgorge swarms of bare-headed and bare-footed “ callants,” who, 
with gestures wild and “eldrich screech and hollo,” might fre- 
quently be seen pouring down the sides of the hill. I have seen 
upwards of a thousand engaged on either side in these frays, 
which I have no doubt were full as desperate as the fights 
described in the Iliad, and which were certainly much more 
bloody than the combats of modern Greece in the war of in- 
dependence. The callants not only employed their hands in hurling 
stones, but not unfrequently slings ; at the use of which they were 
very expert, and which occasionally dislodged teeth, shattered 
jaws, or knocked out an eye. Our opponents certainly laboured 
under considerable disadvantage, being compelled not only to 
wade across a deceitful bog, but likewise to clamber up part of a 
steep hill before they could attack us ; nevertheless, their deter- 
mination was such, and such their impetuosity, that we had 
sometimes difficulty enough to maintain our own. I shall never 
forget one bicker, the last indeed which occurred at that time, as 
the authorities of the town, alarmed by the desperation of its 
character, stationed forthwith a body of police on the hill side to 
prevent, in future, any such breaches of the peace. 

It was a beautiful Sunday evening, the rays of the descending 
sun were reflected redly from the grey walls of the castle, and from 
the black rocks on which it was founded. The bicker had long 
since commenced, stones from sling and hand were flying ; but 
the callants of the New Town were now carrying everything before 
them. 

A full-grown baker’s apprentice was at their head ; he was 
foaming with rage, and had taken the field, as I was told, in order 
to avenge his brother, whose eye had been knocked out in one of 
the late bickers. He was no slinger, or flinger, but brandished in 
his right hand the spoke of a cart-wheel, like my countryman Tom 
Hickathrift of old in his encounter with the giant of the Lincoln- 
shire fen. Protected by a piece of wicker-work attached to his 
left arm, he rushed on to the fray, disregarding the stones which 
were showered against him, and was ably seconded by his 
followers. Our own party was chased half way up the hill, where 
I was struck to the ground by the baker, after having been foiled 
in an attempt which I had made to fling a handful of earth into 
his eyes. All now appeared lost, the Auld Toon was in full 
retreat. I myself lay at the baker’s feet, who had just raised his 


THE BICKERS. 


5i 


1813.] 


spoke, probably to give me the coup de grace , — it was an awful 
moment. Just then I heard a shout and a rushing sound. A 
wild-looking figure is descending the hill with terrible bounds ; it 
is a lad of some fifteen years ; he is bare-headed, and his red 
uncombed hair stands on end like hedgehogs’ bristles ; his frame 
is lithy, like that of an antelope, but he has prodigious breadth of 
chest ; he wears a military undress, that of the regiment, even of 
a drummer, for it is wild Davy, whom a month before I had seen 
enlisted on Leith Links to serve King George with drum and 
drumstick as long as his services might be required, and who, 
ere a week had elapsed, had smitten with his fist Drum-Major 
Elzigood, who, incensed at his own inaptitude, had threatened 
him with the cane ; he has been in confinement for weeks, this is 
the first day of his liberation, and he is now descending the hill 
with horrid bounds and shoutings ; he is now about five yards 
distant, and the baker, who apprehends that something dangerous 
is at hand prepares himself for the encounter ; but what avails the 
strength of a baker, even full grown ? — what avails the defence o 
a wicker shield ? what avails the wheel-spoke, should there be an 
opportunity of using it, against the impetus of an avalanche or a 
cannon ball? — for to either of these might that wild figure be 
compared, which, at the distance of five yards, sprang at once with 
head, hands, feet and body, all together, upon the champion ot 
the New Town, tumbling him to the earth amain. And now it 
was the turn of the Old Town to triumph. Our late discomfited 
host, returning on its steps, overwhelmed the fallen champion 
with blows of every kind, and then, led on by his vanquisher who 
had assumed his arms, namely, the wheelspoke and wicker shield, 
fairly cleared the brae of their adversaries, whom they drove down 
headlong into the morass. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Meanwhile I had become a daring cragsman, a character to 
which an English lad has seldom opportunities of aspiring; for 
in England there are neither crags nor mountains. Of these, 
however, as is well known, there is no lack in Scotland, and the 
habits of individuals are invariably in harmony with the country in 
which they dwell. The Scotch are expert climbers, and I was 
now a Scot in most things, particularly in language. The castle 
in which I dwelt stood upon a rock, a bold and craggy one, which, 
at first sight, would seem to bid defiance to any feet save those 
of goats and chamois ; but patience and perseverance generally 
enable mankind to overcome things which, at first sight, appear 
impossible. Indeed, what is there above man’s exertions? Un- 
wearied determination will enable him to run with the horse, to 
swim with the fish, and assuredly to compete with the chamois 
and the goat in agility and sureness of foot. To scale the rock 
was merely child’s play for the Edinbro’ callants. It was my own 
favourite diversion. I soon found that the rock contained all 
manner of strange crypts, crannies, and recesses, where owls 
nestled, and the weasel brought forth her young ; here and there 
were small natural platforms, overgrown with long grass and 
various kinds of plants, where the climber, if so disposed, could 
stretch himself, and either give his eyes to sleep or his mind to 
thought ; for capital places were these same platforms either for 
repose or meditation. The boldest features of the rock are 
descried on the southern side, where, after shelving down gently 
from the wall for some distance, it terminates abruptly in a 
precipice, black and horrible, of some three hundred feet at least, 
as if the axe of nature had been here employed cutting sheer 
down, and leaving behind neither excrescence nor spur — a dizzy 
precipice it is, assimilating much to those so frequent in the flinty 
hills of Northern Africa, and exhibiting some distant resemblance 
to that of Gibraltar, towering in its horridness above the neutral 
ground. 

It was now holiday time, and having nothing particular where- 
with to occupy myself, I not unfrequently passed the greater part 

( 5 2 ) 


I8I3-I4-] 


DAVID HAGGART. 


53 


of the day upon the rocks. Once, after scaling the western crags, 
and creeping round a sharp angle of the wall, overhung by a kind 
of watch tower, I found myself on the southern side. Still keeping 
close to the wall, I was proceeding onward, for I was bent upon a 
long excursion which should embrace half the circuit of the castle, 
when suddenly my eye was attracted by the appearance of some- 
thing red, far below me ; I stopped short, and, looking fixedly 
upon it, perceived that it was a human being in a kind of red 
jacket, seated on the extreme verge of the precipice, which I 
have already made a faint attempt to describe. Wondering who 
it could be, I shouted; but it took not the slightest notice, 
remaining as immovable as the rock on which it sat. “ I should 
never have thought of going near that edge,” said I to myself ; 
“ however, as you have done it, why should not I ? And I 
should like to know who you are.” So I commenced the 
descent of the rock, but with great care, for I had as yet never 
been in a situation so dangerous ; a slight moisture exuded from 
the palms of my hands, my nerves were tingling, and my brain 
was somewhat dizzy — and now I had arrived within a few yards 
of the figure, and had recognised it : it was the wild drummer 
who had turned the tide of battle in the bicker on the Castle 
Brae. A small stone which I dislodged now rolled down the 
rock, and tumbled into the abyss close beside him. He turned 
his head, and after looking at me for a moment somewhat vacantly, 
he resumed his former attitude. I drew yet nearer to the horrible 
edge ; not close, however, for fear was on me. 

“What are you thinking of, David?” said I, as I sat behind 
him and trembled, for I repeat that I was afraid. 

David Haggart. I was thinking of Willie Wallace. 

Myself. You had better be thinking of yourself, man. A 
strange place this to come to and think of William Wallace. 

David Haggart. Why so ? Is not his tower just beneath our 
feet ? 

Myself. You mean the auld ruin by the side of the Nor Loch 
— the ugly stane bulk, from the foot of which flows the spring 
into the dyke, where the watercresses grow? 

David Haggart. Just sae, Geordie. 

Myself. And why were ye thinking of him? The English 
hanged him long since, as I have heard say. 

David Haggart. I was thinking that I should wish to be like him. 

Myself. Do ye mean that ye would wish to be hanged ? 

David Haggart. I wad na flinch from that, Geordie, if I 
might be a great man first, 


54 


LA VENGRO. 


[1813-14. 


Myself. And wha kens, Davie, how great you may be, even 
without hanging? Are ye not in the high road of preferment? 
Are ye not a bauld drummer already ? Wha kens how high ye 
may rise? perhaps to be general, or drum-major. 

David Haggart. I hae na wish to be drum-major ; it were na 
great things to be like the doited carle, Else-than-gude, as they 
call him ; and, troth, he has nae his name for naething. But I 
should have nae objection to be a general, and to fight the 
French and Americans, and win myself a name and a fame like 
Willie Wallace, and do brave deeds, such as I have been reading 
about in his story book. 

Myself Ye are a fule, Davie; the story book is full of lies. 
Wallace, indeed ! the wuddie rebel ! I have heard my father 
say that the Duke of Cumberland was worth twenty of Willie 
Wallace. 

David Haggart. Ye had better sae naething agin Willie 
Wallace, Geordie, for, if ye do, De’il hae me, if I dinna tumble 
ye doon the craig. 


Fine materials in that lad for a hero, you will say. Yes, 
indeed, for a hero, or for what he afterwards became. In other 
times, and under other circumstances, he might have made what 
is generally termed a great man, a patriot, or a conqueror. As 
it was, the very qualities which might then have pushed him on 
to fortune and renown were the cause of his ruin. The war 
over, he fell into evil courses; for his wild heart and ambitious 
spirit could not brook the sober and quiet pursuits of honest 
industry. 

“Can an Arabian steed submit to be a vile drudge?” cries 
the fatalist. Nonsense ! A man is not an irrational creature, but 
a reasoning being, and has something within him beyond mere 
brutal instinct. The greatest victory which a man can achieve 
is over himself, by which is meant those unruly passions which 
are not convenient to the time and place. David did not do 
this ; he gave the reins to his wild heart, instead of curbing it, 
and became a robber, and, alas ! alas ! he shed blood — under 
peculiar circumstances, it is true, and without malice prepense 
—and for that blood he eventually died, and justly; for it 
was that of the warden of a prison from which he was escaping, 
and whom he slew with one blow of his stalwart arm. 

Tamerlane and Flaggart ! Haggart and Tamerlane ! Both 
these men were robbers, and of low birth, yet one perished on 
an ignoble scaffold, and the other died emperor of the world. 


Z8I3-I4-] 


DAVID HAGGART. 


55 


Is this justice ? The ends of the two men were widely dissimilar 
—yet what is the intrinsic difference between them ? Very great 
indeed ; the one acted according to his lights and his country, 
not so the other. Tamerlane was a heathen, and acted according 
to his lights ; he was a robber where all around were robbers, but 
he became the avenger of God — God’s scourge on unjust kings, 
on the cruel Bajazet, who had plucked out his own brothers’ 
eyes ; he became to a certain extent the purifier of the East, 
its regenerator ; his equal never was before, nor has it since 
been seen. Here the wild heart was profitably employed, the 
wild strength, the teeming brain. Onward, Lame one ! Onward, 
Tamur — lank ! Haggart. . . . 

But peace to thee, poor David ! why should a mortal worm be 
sitting in judgment over thee? The Mighty and Just One has 
already judged thee, and perhaps above thou hast received pardon 
for thy crimes, which could not be pardoned here below; and 
now that thy feverish existence has closed, and thy once active 
form become inanimate dust, thy very memory all but forgotten, 
I will say a few words about thee, a few words soon also to be 
forgotten. Thou wast the most extraordinary robber that ever 
lived within the belt of Britain ; Scotland rang with thy exploits, 
and England, too, north of the Humber; strange deeds also 
didst thou achieve when, fleeing from justice, thou didst find 
thyself in the Sister Isle ; busy wast thou there in town and on 
curragh, at fair and race-course, and also in the solitary place. 
Ireland thought thee her child, for who spoke her brogue better 
than thyself? — she felt proud of thee, and said, “Sure, O’Hanlon 
is come again.” What might not have been thy fate in the far 
west in America, whither thou hadst turned thine eye, saying, “ I 
will go there, and become an honest man ! ” But thou wast not 
to go there, David — the blood which thou hadst shed in Scotland 
was to be required of thee ; the avenger was at hand, the avenger 
of blood. Seized, manacled, brought back to thy native land, 
condemned to die, thou wast left in thy narrow cell and told to 
make the most of thy time, for it was short: and there, in thy 
narrow cell, and thy time so short, thou didst put the crowning 
stone to thy strange deeds, by that strange history of thyself, 
penned by thy own hand in the robber tongue. Thou mightest 
have been better employed, David ! — but the ruling passion was 
strong with thee, even in the jaws of death. Thou mightest have 
been better employed ! — but peace be with thee, I repeat, and the 
Almighty’s grace and pardon. 


CHAPTER IX. 


Onward, onward ! and after we had sojourned in Scotland nearly 
two years, the long continental war had been brought to an end ; 
Napoleon was humbled for a time, and the Bourbons restored to 
a land which could have well have dispensed with them. We 
returned to England, where the corps was disbanded, and my 
parents with their family retired to private life. I shall pass over 
in silence the events of a year, which offer little of interest as far 
as connected with me and mine. Suddenly, however, the sound 
of war was heard again ; Napoleon had broken forth from Elba, 
and everything was in confusion. Vast military preparations were 
again made, our own corps was levied anew, and my brother 
became an officer in it ; but the danger was soon over, Napoleon 
was once more quelled and chained for ever, like Prometheus, to 
his rock. As the corps, however, though so recently levied, had 
already become a very fine one, thanks to my father’s energetic 
drilling, the Government very properly determined to turn it to 
some account, and, as disturbances were apprehended in Ireland 
about this period, it occurred to them that they could do no better 
than despatch it to that country. 

In the autumn of the year 1815 we set sail from a port in 
Essex ; we were some eight hundred strong, and were embarked 
in two ships, very large, but old and crazy ; a storm overtook us 
when off Beachy Head, in which we had nearly foundered. I 
was awakened early in the morning by the howling of the wind, 
and the uproar on deck. I kept myself close, however, as is still 
my constant practice on similar occasions, and waited the result 
with that apathy and indifference which (violent sea-sickness is 
sure to produce. We shipped several seas, and once the vessel 
missing stays — which, to do it justice, it generally did at every 
third or fourth tack — we escaped almost by a miracle from being 
dashed upon the foreland. On the eighth day of our voyage we 
were in sight of Ireland. The weather was now calm and serene, 
the sun shone brightly on the sea and on certain green hills in the 
distance, on which I descried what at first sight I believed to be 


IRELAND . 


57 


1815.] 


two ladies gathering flowers, which, however, on our nearer 
approach, proved to be two tall white towers, doubtless built for 
some purpose or other, though I did not learn for what. 

We entered a kind of bay, or cove, by a narrow inlet ; it was 
a beautiful and romantic place this cove, very spacious, and being 
nearly land-locked, was sheltered from every wind. A small 
island, every inch of which was covered with fortifications, appeared 
to swim upon the waters, whose dark blue denoted their immense 
depth ; tall green hills, which ascended gradually from the shore, 
formed the background to the west ; they were carpeted to the 
top with turf of the most vivid green, and studded here and there 
with woods, seemingly of oak ; there was a strange old castle 
half-way up the ascent, a village on a crag — but the mists of 
morning were half veiling the scene when I surveyed it, and 
the mists of time are now hanging densely between it and 
my no longer youthful eye ; I may not describe it ; — nor will I 
try. 

Leaving the ship in the cove, we passed up a wide river in 
boats till we came to a city where we disembarked. It was a large 
city, as large as Edinburgh to my eyes ; there were plenty of fine 
houses, but little neatness ; the streets were full of impurities ; 
handsome equipages rolled along, but the greater part of the 
population were in rags ; beggars abounded ; there was no lack 
of merriment, however ; boisterous shouts of laughter were heard 
on every side. It appeared a city of contradictions. After a few 
days’ rest we marched from this place in two divisions. My father 
commanded the second ; I walked by his side. 

Our route lay up the country ; the country at first offered no 
very remarkable feature ; it was pretty, but tame. On the second 
day, however, its appearance had altered, it had become more 
wild ; a range of distant mountains bounded the horizon. We 
passed through several villages, as I suppose I may term them, 
of low huts, the walls formed of rough stones without mortar, 
the roof of flags laid over wattles and wicker-work ; they seemed 
to be inhabited solely by women and children ; the latter were 
naked, the former, in general, blear-eyed beldames, who sat beside 
the doors on low stools, spinning. We saw, however, both men 
and women working at a distance in the fields. 

I was thirsty ; and going up to an ancient crone, employed in 
the manner which I have described, I asked her for water ; she 
looked me in the face, appeared to consider for a moment, then 
tottering into her hut, presently reappeared with a small pipkin of 
milk, which she offered to me with a trembling hand. I drank 


58 


LA VENGRO. 


[1815. 


the milk ; it was sour, but I found it highly refreshing. I then 
took out a penny and offered it to her, whereupon she shook her 
head, smiled, and, patting my face with her skinny hand, murmured 
some words in a tongue which I had never heard before. 

I walked on by my father’s side, holding the stirrup-leather of 
his horse ; presently several low uncouth cars passed by, drawn 
by starved cattle ; the drivers were tall fellows, with dark features 
and athletic frames — they wore long loose blue cloaks with sleeves, 
which last, however, dangled unoccupied ; these cloaks appeared 
in tolerably good condition, not so their under garments. On 
their heads were broad slouching hats ; the generality of them 
were bare-footed. As they passed, the soldiers jested with them 
in the patois of East Anglia, whereupon the fellows laughed and 
appeared to jest with the soldiers ; but what they said who knows, 
it being in a rough guttural language, strange and wild. The 
soldiers stared at each other, and were silent. 

“ A strange language that ! ” said a young officer to my father, 
“ I don’t understand a word of it ; what can it be?” 

“ Irish,” said my father, with a loud voice, “ and a bad 
language it is; I have known it of old, that is, I have often heard 
it spoken when I was a guardsman in London. There’s one 
part of London where all the Irish live — at least all the worst of 
them — and there they hatch their villanies and speak this tongue ; 
it is that which keeps them together and makes them dangerous. 
I was once sent there to seize a couple of deserters — Irish — who 
had taken refuge among their companions ; we found them in 
what was in my time called a ken, that is, a house where only 
thieves and desperadoes are to be found. Knowing on what kind 
of business I was bound, I had taken with me a sergeant’s party ; 
it was well I did so. We found the deserters in a large room, 
with at least thirty ruffians, horrid-looking fellows, seated about a 
long table, drinking, swearing, and talking Irish. Ah ! we had 
a tough battle, I remember ; the two fellows did nothing, but sat 
still, thinking it best to be quiet ; but the rest, with an ubbubboo, 
like the blowing up of a powder-magazine, sprang up, brandishing 
their sticks ; for these fellows always carry sticks with them, even 
to bed, and not unfrequently spring up in their sleep, striking left 
and right.” 

“ And did you take the deserters ? ” said the officer. 

“ Yes,” said my father ; “ for we formed at the end of the room, 
and charged with fixed bayonets, which compelled the others to 
yield notwithstanding their numbers ; but the worst was when we 
got out into the street ; the whole district had become alarmed, 


CLONMEL. 


59 


1815.] 


and hundreds came pouring down upon us — men, women, and 
children. Women, did I say !— they looked fiends, half naked, 
with their hair hanging down over their bosoms ; they tore up the 
very pavement to hurl at us, sticks rang about our ears, stones, 
and Irish — I liked the Irish worst of all, it sounded so horrid, 
especially as I did not understand it. It’s a bad language.” 

“A queer tongue,” said I, “I wonder if I could learn it?” 

“ Learn it ! ” said my father ; “ what should you learn it for ? 
— however, I am not afraid of that. It is not like Scotch ; no 
person can learn it, save those who are born to it, and even in 
Ireland the respectable people do not speak it, only the wilder 
sort, like those we have passed.” 

Within a day or two we had reached a tall range of mountains 
running north and south, which I was told were those of Tipperary ; 
along the skirts of these we proceeded till we came to a town, the 
principal one of these regions. It was on the bank of a beautiful 
river, which separated it from the mountains. It was rather an 
ancient place, and might contain some ten thousand inhabitants ; 
I found that it was our destination ; there were extensive barracks 
at the farther end, in which the corps took up its quarters; with 
respect to ourselves, we took lodgings in a house which stood in 
the principal street. 

“You never saw more elegant lodgings than these, captain,” 
said the master of the house, a tall, handsome, and athletic man, 
who came up whilst our little family w r ere seated at dinner late in 
the afternoon of the day of our arrival ; “ they beat anything in 
this town of Clonmel. I do not let them for the sake of interest, 
and to none but gentlemen in the army, in order that myself and 
my wife, who is from Londonderry, may have the advantage of 
pleasant company, genteel company ; ay, and Protestant company, 
captain. It did my heart good when I saw your honour ride in 
at the head of all those fine fellows, real Protestants, I’ll engage, 
not a Papist among them — they are too good-looking and honest- 
looking for that. So I no sooner saw your honour at the head of 
your army, with that handsome young gentleman holding by your 
stirrup, than I said to my wife, Mistress Hyne, who is from 
Londonderry, ‘God bless me,’ said I, ‘what a truly Protestant 
countenance, what a noble bearing, and what a sweet young 
gentleman. By the silver hairs of his honour — and sure enough 
I never saw hairs more regally silver than those of your honour — 
by his honour’s gray silver hairs, and by my own soul, which is 
not worthy to be mentioned in the same day with one of them — 
it would be no more than decent and civil to run out and welcome 


6 o 


LA VENGRO. 


[1815 


such a father and son coming in at the head of such a Protestant 
military.’ And then my wife, who is from Londonderry, Mistress 
Hyne, looking me in the face like a fairy as she is, ‘You may say 
that,’ says she. ‘ It would be but decent and civil, honey.’ And 
your honour knows how I ran out of my own door and welcomed 
your honour riding, in company with your son w’ho was walking ; 
how I welcomed ye both at the head of your royal regiment, and 
how I shook your honour by the hand, saying, I am glad to see 
your honour, and your honour’s son, and your honour’s royal 
military Protestant regiment. And now I have you in the house, 
and right proud I am to have ye one and all : one, two, three, 
four, true Protestants every one, no Papists here ; and I have 
made bold to bring up a bottle of claret which is now waiting 
behind the door; and, when your honour and your family have 
dined, I will make bold too to bring up Mistress Hyne, from Lon- 
donderry, to introduce to your honour’s lady, and then we’ll drink 
to the health of King George, God bless him ; to the ‘ glorious and 
immortal ’ — to Boyne water — to your honour’s speedy promotion 
to be Lord Lieutenant, and to the speedy downfall of the Pope 
and Saint Anthony of Padua.” 

Such was the speech of the Irish Protestant addressed to my 
father in the long lofty dining-room with three windows, looking 
upon the High street of the good town of Clonmel, as he sat at 
meat with his family, after saying grace like a true-hearted respect- 
able soldier as he was. 

“A bigot and an Orangeman!” Oh, yes! It is easier to 
apply epithets of opprobrium to people than to make yourself 
acquainted with their history and position. He was a specimen, 
and a fair specimen, of a most remarkable body of men, who 
during two centuries have fought a good fight in Ireland in the 
cause of civilisation and religious truth ; they were sent as colonists, 
few in number, into a barbarous and unhappy country, where ever 
since, though surrounded with difficulties of every kind, they have 
maintained their ground ; theirs has been no easy life, nor have 
their lines fallen upon very pleasant places ; amidst darkness they 
have held up a lamp, and it would be well for Ireland were all her 
children like these her adopted ones. “ But they are fierce and 
sanguinary,” it is said. Ay, ay ! they have not unfrequently 
opposed the keen sword to the savage pike. “ But they are 
bigoted and narrow-minded.” Ay, ay ! they do not like idolatry, 
and will not bow the knee before a stone ! “ But their language 

is frequently indecorous.” Go to, my dainty one, did ye ever 
listen to the voice of Papist cursing ? 


CLONMEL. 


61 


1815.] 


The Irish Protestants have faults, numerous ones ; but the 
greater number of these may be traced to the peculiar circum- 
stances of their position. But they have virtues, numerous ones ; 
and their virtues are their own, their industry, their energy, and 
their undaunted resolution are their own. They have been 
vilified and traduced — but what would Ireland be without them ? 
I repeat, that it would be well for her were all her sons no worse 
than these much calumniated children of her adoption. 


CHAPTER X. 


We continued at this place for some months, during which time 
the soldiers performed their duties, whatever they were ; and I, 
having no duties to perform, was sent to school. I had been to 
English schools, and to the celebrated one of Edinburgh ; but 
my education, at the present day, would not be what it is — 
perfect, had I never had the honour of being alumnus in an Irish 
seminary. 

“ Captain,” said our kind host, “ you would, no doubt, wish 
that the young gentleman should enjoy every advantage which the 
town may afford towards helping him on in the path of genteel 
learning. It’s a great pity that he should waste his time in idle- 
ness — doing nothing else than what he says he has been doing 
for the last fortnight — fishing in the river for trouts which he 
never catches, and wandering up the glen in the mountain in 
search of the hips that grow there. Now, we have a school here, 
where he can learn the most elegant Latin, and get an insight into 
the Greek letters, which is desirable; and where, moreover, he 
will have an opportunity of making acquaintance with all the 
Protestant young gentlemen of the place, the handsome well- 
dressed young persons whom your honour sees in the church on 
the Sundays, when your honour goes there in the morning, with 
the rest of the Protestant military ; for it is no Papist school, 
though there may be a Papist or two there — a few poor farmers’ 
sons from the country, with whom there is no necessity for your 
honour’s child to form any acquaintance at all, at all ! ” 

And to the school I went, where I read the Latin tongue and 
the Greek letters, with a nice old clergyman, who sat behind a 
black oaken desk, with a huge Elzevir Flaccus before him, in a 
long gloomy kind of hall, with a broken stone floor, the roof 
festooned with cobwebs, the walls considerably dilapidated, and 
covered over with strange figures and hieroglyphics, evidently 
produced by the application of burnt stick ; and there I made 
acquaintance with the Protestant young gentlemen of the place, 
who, with whatever eclat they might appear at church on a 
Sunday, did assuredly not exhibit to much advantage in the 


MURTAGH. 


63 


1815.] 


school-room on the week days, either with respect to clothes or 
looks. And there I was in the habit of sitting on a large stone, 
before the roaring fire in the huge open chimney, and entertaining 
certain of the Protestant young gentlemen of my own age, seated 
on similar stones, with extraordinary accounts of my own adven- 
tures and those of the corps, with an occasional anecdote extracted 
from the story-books of Hickathrift and Wight Wallace, pretending 
to be conning the lesson all the while. 

And there I made acquaintance, notwithstanding the hint of 
the landlord, with the Papist “gasoons,” as they were called, the 
farmers’ sons from the country ; and of these gasoons, of which 
there were three, two might be reckoned as nothing at all ; in 
the third, however, I soon discovered that there was something 
extraordinary. 

He was about sixteen years old, and above six feet high, 
dressed in a gray suit ; the coat, from its size, appeared to have 
been made for him some ten years before. He was remarkably 
narrow-chested and round-shouldered, owing, perhaps, as much to 
the tightness of his garment as to the hand of nature. His face 
was long, and his complexion swarthy, relieved, however, by certain 
freckles, with which the skin was plentifully studded. He had 
strange wandering eyes, gray, and somewhat unequal in size ; they 
seldom rested on the book, but were generally wandering about 
the room from one object to another. Sometimes he would fix 
them intently on the wall ; and then suddenly starting, as if from 
a reverie, he would commence making certain mysterious move- 
ments with his thumbs and forefingers, as if he were shuffling 
something from him. 

One morning, as he sat by himself on a bench, engaged in 
this manner, I went up to him and said, “ Good day, Murtagh ; 
you do not seem to have much to do.” 

“ Faith, you may say that, Shorsha dear ! it is seldom much to 
do that I have.” 

“ And what are you doing with your hands ? ” 

“ Faith, then, if I must tell you, I was e’en dealing with the 
cards.” 

“ Do you play much at cards ? ” 

“ Sorra a game, Shorsha, have I played with the cards since 
my uncle Phelim, the thief, stole away the ould pack, when he 
went to settle in the county Waterford ! ” 

“ But you have other things to do ? ” 

“ Sorra anything else has Murtagh to do that he cares about ; 
and that makes me dread so going home at nights.” 


6 4 


LA VENGRO. 


[1815. 


“ I should like to know all about you ; where do you live, 

joy?” 

“ Faith, then, ye shall know all about me, and where I live. 
It is at a place called the Wilderness that I live, and they call it 
so, because it is a fearful wild place, without any house near it but 
my father’s own ; and that’s where I live when at home.” 

“ And your father is a farmer, I suppose ? ” 

“You may say that; and it is a farmer I should have been, 
like my brother Denis, had not my uncle Phelim, the thief ! tould 
my father to send me to school, to learn Greek letters, that I 
might be made a saggart of and sent to Paris and Salamanca.” 

“ And you would rather be a farmer than a priest? ” 

“ You may say that ! for, were I a farmer, like the rest, I 
should have something to do, like the rest, something that I 
cared for, and I should come home tired at night and fall asleep, 
as the rest do, before the fire; but when I comes home at night I 
am not tired, for I have been doing nothing all day that I care 
for ; and then I sits down and stares about me, and at the fire, 
till I become frighted ; and then I shouts to my brother Denis, 
or to the gasoons, ‘ Get up, I say, and let’s be doing something ; 
tell us a tale of Finn-ma-Coul, and how he lay down in the 
Shannon’s bed and let the river flow down his jaws ! ’ Arrah, 
Shorsha, I wish you would come and stay with us, and tell us 
some o’ your sweet stories of your ownself and the snake ye 
carried about wid ye. Faith, Shorsha dear! that snake bates 
anything about Finn-ma-Coul or Brian Boroo, the thieves two, bad 
luck to them ! ” 

“ And do they get up and tell you stories ? ” 

“ Sometimes they does, but oftenmost they curses me and 
bids me be quiet ! But I can’t be quiet, either before the fire or 
abed; so I runs out of the house, and stares at the rocks, at the 
trees, and sometimes at the clouds, as they run a race across the 
bright moon ; and the more I stares, the more frighted I grows, 
till I screeches and holloas. And last night I went into the barn 
and hid my face in the straw ; and there, as I lay and shivered in 
the straw, I heard a voice above my head singing out ‘ To whit, 
to whoo ! ’ and then up I starts and runs into the house, and falls 
over my brother Denis, as he lies at the fire. ‘ What’s that for ? ’ 
says he. 4 Get up, you thief ! ’ says I, ‘ and be helping me. I 
have been out in the barn, and an owl has crow’d at me ! ’ ” 

“ And what has this to do with playing cards ? ” 

“ Little enough, Shorsha dear! — If there were card-playing, I 
should not be frighted.” 


MURTAGH. 


65 


1815.] 


“ And why do you not play at cards ? ” 

“ Did I not tell you that the thief, my uncle Phelim, stole away 
the pack ? If we had the pack, my brother Denis and the gasoons 
would be ready enough to get up from their sleep before the fire, 
and play cards with me for ha’pence, or eggs, or nothing at all ; 
but the pack is gone — bad luck to the thief who took it ! ” 

“ And why don’t you buy another ? ” 

“Is it of buying you are speaking? And where am I to get 
the money ? ” 

“ Ah ! that’s another thing ! ” 

“ Faith it is, honey ! — And now the Christmas holidays is 
coming, when I shall be at home by day as well as night, and 
then what am I to do ? Since I have been a saggarting, I have 
been good for nothing at all — neither for work nor Greek — only 
to play cards ! Faith, it’s going mad I will be ! ” 

“ I say, Murtagh ! ” 

“ Yes, Shorsha dear ! ” 

“ I have a pack of cards.” 

“ You don’t say so, Shorsha mavourneen ! you don’t say that 
you have cards fifty-two ? ” 

“ I do, though ; and they are quite new — never been once 
used.” 

“And you’ll be lending them to me, I warrant? ” 

“ Don’t think it ! But I’ll sell them to you, joy, if you like.” 

“ Hanam mon Dioull am I not after telling you that I have 
no money at all ? ” 

“ But you have as good as money, to me, at least ; and I’ll 
take it in exchange.” 

“ What’s that, Shorsha dear ? ” 

“ Irish ! ” 

“Irish?” 

“ Yes, you speak Irish ; I heard you talking it the other day 
to the cripple. You shall teach me Irish.” 

“And is it a language-master you’d be making of me?” 

“ To be sure ! — what better can you do ? — it would help you 
to pass your time at school. You can’t learn Greek, so you must 
teach Irish ! ” 

Before Christmas, Murtagh was playing at cards with 
his brother Denis, and I could speak a considerable quantity 
of broken Irish. 


5 


CHAPTER XI. 


When Christmas was over, and the new year commenced, we 
broke up our quarters, and marched away to Templemore. This 
was a large military station, situated in a wild and thinly inhabited 
country. Extensive bogs were in the neighbourhood, connected 
with the huge bog of Allan, the Palus Maeotis of Ireland. Here 
and there was seen a ruined castle looming through the mists of 
winter ; whilst, at the distance of seven miles, rose a singular 
mountain, exhibiting in its brow a chasm, or vacuum, just, for all 
the world, as if a piece had been bitten out ; a feat which, according 
to the tradition of the country, had actually been performed by 
his Satanic majesty, who, after flying for some leagues with the 
morsel in his mouth, becoming weary, dropped it in the vicinity of 
Cashel, where it may now be seen in the shape of a bold bluff hill, 
crowned with the ruins of a stately edifice, probably built by 
some ancient Irish king. 

We had been here only a few days, when my brother, who, as 
I have before observed, had become one of his Majesty’s officers, 
was sent on detachment to a village at about ten miles’ distance. 
He was not sixteen, and, though three years older than myself, 
scarcely my equal in stature, for I had become tall and large- 
limbed for my age ; but there was a spirit in him that would not 
have disgraced a general ; and, nothing daunted at the considerable 
responsibility which he was about to incur, he marched sturdily 
out of the barrack-yard at the head of his party, consisting of 
twenty light-infantry men, and a tall grenadier sergeant, selected 
expressly by my father for the soldier-like qualities which he 
possessed, to accompany his son on this his first expedition. So 
out of the barrack-yard, with something of an air, marched my 
dear brother/ his single drum and fife playing the inspiring old 
melody, 

Marlbrouk is gone to the wars, 

He’ll never return no more ! 

I soon missed my brother, for I was now alone, with no being 

( 66 ) 


TEMPLEMORE. 


67 


1816.] 


at all assimilating in age, with whom I could exchange a word. 
Of late years, from being almost constantly at school, I had cast 
aside, in a great degree, my unsocial habits and natural reserve, 
but in the desolate region in which we now were there was no 
school ; and I felt doubly the loss of my brother, whom, moreover, 
I tenderly loved for his own sake. Books I had none, at least 
such “ as I cared about ; ” and with respect to the old volume, 
the wonders of which had first beguiled me into common reading, 
I had so frequently pored over its pages, that I had almost got its 
contents by heart. I was therefore in danger of falling into the 
same predicament as Murtagh, becoming “ frighted ” from having 
nothing to do ! Nay, I had not even his resources ; I cared not 
for cards, even if I possessed them, and could find people disposed 
to play with them. However, I made the most of circumstances, 
and roamed about the desolate fields and bogs in the neighbour- 
hood, sometimes entering the cabins of the peasantry, with a 
“God’s blessing upon you, good people!” where I would take 
my seaton the “stranger’s stone” at the corner of the hearth, 
and, looking them full in the face, would listen to the carles and 
carlines talking Irish. 

Ah, that Irish ! How frequently do circumstances, at first 
sight the most trivial and unimportant, exercise a mighty and 
permanent influence on our habits and pursuits ! — how frequently 
is a stream turned aside from its natural course by some little rock 
or knoll, causing it to make an abrupt turn ! On a wild road in 
Ireland I had heard Irish spoken for the first time ; and I was 
seized with a desire to learn Irish, the acquisition of which, in 
my case, became the stepping-stone to other languages. I had 
previously learnt Latin, or rather Lilly; but neither Latin nor 
Lillymade me a philologist. I had frequently heard French and 
other languages, but had felt little desire to become acquainted 
with them ; and what, it may be asked, was there connected with 
the Irish calculated to recommend it to my attention ? 

First of all, and principally, I believe, the strangeness and 
singularity of its tones ; then there was something mysterious and 
uncommon associated with its use. It was not a school language, 
to acquire which was considered an imperative duty ; no, no ; nor 
was it a drawing-room language, drawled out occasionally, in 
shreds and patches, by the ladies of generals and other great 
dignitaries, to the ineffable dismay of poor officers’ wives. 
Nothing of the kind ; but a speech spoken in out-of-the-way 
desolate places, and in cut-throat kens, where thirty ruffians, at 
the sight of the king’s minions, would spring up with brandished 


68 


LA VENGRO. 


[1816. 


sticks and an w ubbubboo, like the blowing up of a powder- 
magazine’’. Such were the points connected with the Irish, 
which first awakened in my mind the desire of acquiring it ; and 
by acquiring it I became, as I have already said, enamoured of 
languages. Having learnt one by choice, I speedily, as the reader 
will perceive, learnt others, some of which were widely different 
from Irish. 

Ah, that Irish ! I am much indebted to it in more ways than 
one. But I am afraid I have followed the way of the world, 
which is very much wont to neglect original friends and bene- 
factors. I frequently find myself, at present, turning up my nose 
at Irish, when I hear it in the street ; yet I have still a kind of 
regard for it, the fine old language : 

A labhair Padruic n'insefail nan riogh. 

One of the most peculiar features of this part of Ireland is the 
ruined castles, which are so thick and numerous that the face of 
the country appears studded with them, it being difficult to choose 
any situation from which one, at least, may not be descried. 
They are of various ages and styles of architecture, some of great 
antiquity, like the stately remains which crown the Crag of 
Cashel ; others built by the early English conquerors ; others, 
and probably the greater part, erections of the times of Elizabeth 
and Cromwell. The whole, speaking monuments of the troubled 
and insecure state of the country, from the most remote periods 
to a comparatively modern time. 

From the windows of the room where I slept I had a view of 
one of these old places — an indistinct one, it is true, the distance 
being too great to permit me to distinguish more than the general 
outline. I had an anxious desire to explore it. It stood to the 
south-east ; in which direction, however, a black bog intervened, 
which had more than once baffled all my attempts to cross it. 
One morning, however, when the sun shone brightly upon the 
old building, it appeared so near, that I felt ashamed at not being 
able to accomplish a feat seemingly so easy ; I determined, there- 
fore, upon another trial. I reached the bog, and was about to 
venture upon its black surface, and to pick my way amongst its 
innumerable holes, yawning horribly, and half filled with water 
black as soot, when it suddenly occurred to me that there was 
a road to the south, by following which I might find a more 
convenient route to the object of my wishes. The event justified 
my expectations, for, after following the road for some three miles, 



00 

VO 

X 

£ 


s 








* 


THE RUINED CASTLE. 


6g 


1816.] 


seemingly in the direction of the Devil’s Mountain, I suddenly 
beheld the castle on my left. 

I diverged from the road, and, crossing two or three fields, 
came to a small grassy plain, in the midst of which stood the 
castle. About a gun-shot to the south was a small village, which 
had, probably, in ancient days, sprung up beneath its protection. 
A kind of awe came over me as I approached the old building. The 
sun no longer shone upon it, and it looked so grim, so desolate 
and solitary; and here was I in that wild country, alone with 
that grim building before me. The village was within sight, it is 
true ; but it might be a village of the dead for what I knew ; no 
sound issued from it, no smoke was rising from its roofs, neither 
man nor beast was visible, no life, no motion — it looked as desolate 
as the castle itself. Yet I was bent on the adventure, and moved 
on towards the castle across the green plain, occasionally casting 
a startled glance around me ; and now I was close to it. 

It was surrounded by a quadrangular wall, about ten feet in 
height, with a square tower at each corner. At first I could dis- 
cover no entrance ; walking round, however, to the northern side, 
I found a wide and lofty gateway with a tower above it, similar 
to those at the angles of the wall ; on this side the ground sloped 
gently down towards the bog, which was here skirted by an abun- 
dant growth of copsewood, and a few evergreen oaks. I passed 
through the gateway, and found myself within a square enclosure 
of about two acres. On one side rose a round and lofty keep, or 
donjon, with a conical roof, part of which had fallen down, strew- 
ing the square with its ruins. Close to the keep, on the other 
side, stood the remains of an oblong house, built something in 
the modern style, with various window-holes ; nothing remained 
but the bare walls and a few projecting stumps of beams, which 
seemed to have been half burnt. The interior of the walls was 
blackened, as if by fire ; fire also appeared at one time to have 
raged out of the window-holes, for the outside about them was 
black, portentously so. 

“ I wonder what has been going on here ! ” I exclaimed. 

There were echoes along the walls as I walked about the 
court. I entered the keep by a low and frowning doorway : the 
lower floor consisted of a large dungeon-like room, with a vaulted 
roof ; on the left hand was a winding staircase in the thickness 
of the wall ; it looked anything but inviting ; yet I stole softly 
up, my heart beating. On the top of the first flight of stairs was 
an arched doorway ; to the left was a dark passage ; to the right, 
stairs leading still higher. I stepped under the arch and found 


70 


LA VENGRO. 


[1816 


myself in an apartment somewhat similar to the one below, but 
higher. There was an object at the farther end. 

An old woman, at least eighty, was seated on a stone, cower- 
ing over a few sticks burning feebly on what had once been a 
right noble and cheerful hearth ; her side-glance was towards the 
doorway as I entered, for she had heard my footsteps. I stood 
suddenly still, and her haggard glance rested on my face. 

“ Is this your house, mother ? ” I at length demanded, in the 
language which I thought she would best understand. 

“ Yes, my house, my own house ; the house of the broken- 
hearted.” 

“ Any other person’s house ? ” I demanded. 

“My own house, the beggar’s house — the accursed house of 
Cromwell ! ” 


CHAPTER XII. 


One morning I set out, designing to pay a visit to my brother at 
the place where he was detached ; the distance was rather con- 
siderable, yet I hoped to be back by evening fall, for I was now 
a shrewd walker, thanks to constant practice. I set out early, 
and directing my course towards the north, I had in less than 
two hours accomplished considerably more than half of the 
journey. The weather had at first been propitious : a slight frost 
had rendered the ground firm to the tread, and the skies were 
clear ; but now a change came over the scene : the skies darkened 
and a heavy snow-storm came on ; the road then lay straight 
through a bog, and was bounded by a deep trench on both sides ; 
I was making the best of my way, keeping as nearly as I could 
in the middle of the road, lest, blinded by the snow which was 
frequently borne into my eyes by the wind, I might fall into the 
dyke, when all at once I heard a shout to windward, and turning 
my eyes I saw the figure of a man, and what appeared to be an 
animal of some kind, coming across the bog with great speed, in 
the direction of myself ; the nature of the ground seemed to offer 
but little impediment to these beings, both clearing the holes and 
abysses which lay in their way with surprising agility ; the animal 
was, however, some slight way in advance, and, bounding over 
the dyke, appeared on the road just before me. It was a dog, of 
what species I cannot tell, never having seen the like before or 
since ; the head was large and round, the ears so tiny as scarcely 
to be discernible, the eyes of a fiery red ; in size it was rather 
small than large, and the coat, which was remarkably smooth, as 
white as the falling flakes. It placed itself directly in my path, 
and showing its teeth, and bristling its coat, appeared determined 
to prevent my progress. I had an ashen stick in my hand, with 
which I threatened it ; this, however, only served to increase its 
fury ; it rushed upon me, and I had the utmost difficulty to pre- 
serve myself from its fangs. 

“ What are you doing with the dog, the fairy dog ? ” said a 
man who at this time likewise cleared the dyke at a bound. 

7i 


72 


LA VENGRO. 


[ 1 8 1 6. 


He was a very tall man, rather well-dressed as it should seem ; 
his garments, however, were like my own, so covered with snow 
that I could scarcely discern their quality. 

“ What are ye doing with the dog of peace ? ” 

“ I wish he would show himself one,” said I ; “ I said nothing 
to him, but he placed himself in my road, and would not let me 
pass.” 

“ Of course he would not be letting you till he knew where 
ye were going.” 

“ He’s not much of a fairy,” said I, “or he would know that 
without asking ; tell him that I am going to see my brother.” 

“ And who is your brother, little Sas ? ” 

“ What my father is, a royal soldier.” 

“Oh, ye are going then to the detachment at ; by my 

shoul, I have a good mind to be spoiling your journey.” 

“You are doing that already,” said I, “keeping me here 
talking about dogs and fairies ; you had better go home and get 
some salve to cure that place over your eye ; it’s catching cold 
you’ll be, in so much snow.” 

On one side of the man’s forehead there was a raw and staring 
wound, as if from a recent and terrible blow. 

“ Faith, then I’ll be going, but it’s taking you wid me I will 
be.” 

“ And where will you take me ? ” 

“ Why, then, to Ryan’s Castle, little Sas.” 

“ You do not speak the language very correctly,” said I ; 
“it is not Sas you should call me — ’tis Sassannach ,” and forth- 
with I accompanied the word with a speech full of flowers of 
Irish rhetoric. 

The man looked upop rrfe for a moment, fixedly, then, bend- 
ing his head towards his breast, he appeared to be undergoing 
a kind of convulsion, which was accompanied by a sound some- 
thing resembling laughter ; presently he looked at me, and there 
was a broad grin on his features. 

“ By my shoul, it’s a thing of peace I’m thinking ye.” 

But now with a whisking sound came running down the road 
a hare ; it was nearly upon us before it perceived us ; suddenly 
stopping short, however, it sprang into the bog on the right-hand 
side ; after it amain bounded the dog of peace, followed by the 
man, but not until he had nodded to me a farewell salutation. 
In a few moments I lost sight of him amidst the snow-flakes. 

The weather was again clear and fine before I reached the 
place of detachment. It was a little wooden barrack, surrounded 


LOUGH MORE. 


73 


1816.] 


by a wall of the same material ; a sentinel stood at the gate, I 
passed by him, and, entering the building, found myself in a rude 
kind of guard-room ; several soldiers were lying asleep on a wooden 
couch at one end, others lounged on benches by the side of a turf 
fire. The tall sergeant stood before the fire, holding a cooking 
utensil in his left hand; on seeing me, he made the military 
salutation. 

“Is my brother here?” said I, rather timidly, dreading to 
hear that he was out, perhaps for the day. 

“The ensign is in his room, sir,” said Bagg, “I am now 
preparing his meal, which will presently be ready ; you will find 
the ensign above stairs,” and he pointed to a broken ladder which 
led to some place above. 

And there I found him — the boy soldier — in a kind of upper 
loft, so low that I could touch with my hands the sooty rafters ; 
the floor was of rough boards, through the joints of which you 
could see the gleam of the soldiers’ fire, and occasionally discern 
their figures as they moved about ; in one corner was a camp 
bedstead, by the side of which hung the child’s sword, gorget, and 
sash ; a deal table stood in the proximity of the rusty grate, where 
smoked and smouldered a pile of black turf from the bog — a deal 
table without a piece of baize to cover it, yet fraught with things 
not devoid of interest : a Bible, given by a mother ; the Odyssey, 
the Greek Odyssey; a flute, with broad silver keys; crayons, 
moreover, and water colours, and a sketch of a wild prospect 
near, which, though but half finished, afforded ample proof of the 
excellence and skill of the boyish hand now occupied upon it. 

Ah ! he was a sweet being, that boy soldier, a plant of early 
promise, bidding fair to become in after time all that is great, 
good, and admirable. I have read of a remarkable. Welshman, 
of whom it was said, when the grave closed over him, that he 
could frame a harp, and play it ; build a ship, and sail it ; com- 
pose an ode, and set it to music. A brave fellow that son of 
Wales — but I had once a brother who could do more and better 
than this, but the grave has closed over him, as over the gallant 
Welshman of yore ; there are now but two that remember him — 
the one who bore him, and the being who was nurtured at the 
same breast. He was taken, and I was left ! Truly, the ways of 
Providence are inscrutable. 

“ You seem to be very comfortable, John,” said I, looking 
around the room and at the various objects which I have described 
above : “you have a good roof over your head, and have all your 
things about you.” 


74 


LA VENGRO . 


[1816. 


“Yes, I am very comfortable, George, in many respects; I 
am, moreover, independent, and feel myself a man for the first 
time in my life — independent did I say ? — that’s not the word, I 
am something much higher than that ; here am I, not sixteen yet, 
a person in authority, like the centurion in the book there, with 
twenty Englishmen under me, worth a whole legion of his 
men, and that fine fellow Bagg to wait upon me, and take my 
orders. Oh ! these last six weeks have passed like hours of 
heaven.” 

“ But your time must frequently hang heavy on your hands; 
this is a strange wild place, and you must be very solitary ? ” 

“ I am never solitary ; I have, as you see, all my things about 
me, and there is plenty of company below stairs. Not that I mix 
with the soldiers ; if I did, good-bye to my authority ; but when I 
am alone I can hear all their discourse through the planks, and I 
often laugh to myself at the funny things they say.” 
u And have you any acquaintance here ? ” 

“The very best; much better than the Colonel and the rest, 
at their grand Templemore ; I had never so many in my whole 
life before. One has just left me, a gentleman who lives at a 
distance across the bog ; he comes to talk with me about Greek, 
and the Odyssey, for he is a very learned man, and understands 
the old Irish and various other strange languages. He has had a 
dispute with Bagg. On hearing his name, he called him to him, 
and, after looking at him for some time with great curiosity, said 
that he was sure he was a Dane. Bagg, however, took the com- 
pliment in dudgeon, and said that he was no more a Dane than 
himself, but a true-born Englishman, and a sergeant of six years’ 
standing.” 

“ And what other acquaintance have you ? ” 

“ All kinds ; the whole neighbourhood can’t make enough of 
me. Amongst others there’s the clergyman of the parish and his 
family ; such a venerable old man, such fine sons and daughters ! 
I am treated by them like a son and a brother — I might be always 
with them if I pleased ; there’s one drawback, however, in going 
to see them ; there’s a horrible creature in the house, a kind of 
tutor, whom they keep more from charity than anything else ; he 
is a Papist and, they say, a priest; you should see him scowl 
sometimes at my red coat, for he hates the king, and not unfre- 
quently, when the king’s health is drunk, curses him between his 
teeth. I once got up to strike him, but the youngest of the 
sisters, who is the handsomest, caught my arm and pointed to her 
forehead.” 


JERRY GRANT. 


75 


1816.] 


“And what does your duty consist of? Have you nothing 
else to do than pay visits and receive them ? ” 

“ We do what is required of us : we guard this edifice, perform 
our evolutions, and help the excise ; I am frequently called up in 
the dead of night to go to some wild place or other in quest of an 
illicit still ; this last part of our duty is poor mean work, I don’t 
like it, nor more does Bagg ; though without it, we should not see 
much active service, for the neighbourhood is quiet ; save the 
poor creatures with their stills, not a soul is stirring. ’Tis true, 
there’s Jerry Grant.” 

“ And who is Jerry Grant ? ” 

“ Did you never hear of him ? that’s strange, the whole country 
is talking about him ; he is a kind of outlaw, rebel, or robber, 
all three, I daresay; there’s a hundred pounds offered for his 
head.” 

“ And where does he live? ” 

“ His proper home, they say, is in the Queen’s County, where 
he has a band ; but he is a strange fellow, fond of wandering about 
by himself amidst the bogs and mountains, and living in the old 
castles ; occasionally he quarters himself in the peasants’ houses, 
who let him do just what he pleases ; he is free of his money, and 
often does them good turns, and can be good-humoured enough, 
so they don’t dislike him. Then he is what they call a fairy man, 
a person in league with fairies and spirits, and able to work much 
harm by supernatural means, on which account they hold him in 
great awe ; he is, moreover, a mighty strong and tall fellow. Bagg 
has seen him.” 

“Has he?” 

“ Yes ! and felt him ; he too is a strange one. A few days 
ago he was told that Grant had been seen hovering about an old 
castle some two miles off in the bog ; so one afternoon what does 
he do but, without saying a word to me — for which, by-the-bye, 
I ought to put him under arrest, though what I should do without 
Bagg I have no idea whatever — what does he do but walk off to 
the castle, intending, as I suppose, to pay a visit to Jerry. He 
had some difficulty in getting there on account of the turf-holes 
in the bog, which he was not accustomed to ; however, thither at 
last he got and went in. It was a strange lonesome place, he 
says, and he did not much like the look of it ; however, in he 
went, and searched about from the bottom to the top and down 
again, but could find no one; he shouted and hallooed, but 
nobody answered, save the rooks and choughs, which started up 
in great numbers. ‘ I have lost my trouble,’ said Bagg, and left 


76 


LA VENGRO. 


L1816. 


the castle. It was now late in the afternoon, near sunset, when 
about half-way over the bog he met a man ” 

“ And that man was ” 

“ Jerry Grant ! there’s no doubt of it. Bagg says it was the 
most sudden thing in the world. He was moving along, making 
the best of his way, thinking of nothing at all save a public-house 
at Swanton Morley, which he intends to take when he gets home 
and the regiment is disbanded — though I hope that will not be for 
some time yet : he had just leaped a turf-hole, and was moving on, 
when, at the distance of about six yards before him, he saw a fellow 
coming straight towards him. Bagg says that he stopped short, 
as suddenly as if he had heard the word halt, when marching at 
double-quick time. It was quite a surprise, he says, and he can’t 
imagine how the fellow was so close upon him before he was 
aware. He was an immense tall fellow — Bagg thinks at least two 
inches taller than himself — very well dressed in a blue coat and 
buff breeches, for all the world like a squire when going out hunt- 
ing. Bagg, however, saw at once that he had a roguish air, and 
he was on his guard in a moment. * Good evening to ye, sodger,’ 
says the fellow, stepping close up to Bagg, and staring him in the 
face. ‘Good evening to you, sir! I hope you are well,’ says 
Bagg. ‘You are looking after some one?” says the fellow. 
‘Just so, sir,’ says Bagg, and forthwith seized him by the collar; 
the man laughed, Bagg says it was such a strange awkward laugh. 
‘ Do you know whom you have got hold of, sodger?’ said he. ‘ I 
believe I do, sir,’ said Bagg, ‘ and in that belief will hold you fast 
in the name of King George, and the quarter sessions ; * the next 
moment he was sprawling with his heels in the air. Bagg says 
there was nothing remarkable in that ; he was only flung by a 
kind of wrestling trick, which he could easily have baffled, had 
he been aware of it. ‘You will not do that again, sir,’ said he, 
as he got up and put himself on his guard. The fellow laughed 
again more strangely and awkwardly than before ; then, bending 
his body and moving his head from one side to the other as a cat 
does before she springs, and crying out, ‘ Here’s for ye, sodger ! ’ 
he made a dart at Bagg, rushing in with his head foremost. 
‘ That will do, sir,’ says Bagg, and drawing himself back he put 
in a left-handed blow with all the force of his body and arm, just 
over the fellow’s right eye — Bagg is a left-handed hitter, you must 
know — and it was a blow of that kind which won him his famous 
battle at Edinburgh with the big Highland sergeant. Bagg says 
that he was quite satisfied with the blow, more especially when he 
saw the fellow reel, fling out his arms, and fall to the ground. 


BAGG. 


77 


1816.] 


* And now, sir/ said he, ‘ I’ll make bold to hand you over to the 
quarter sessions, and, if there is a hundred pounds for taking you, 
who has more right to it than myself ? * So he went forward, but 
ere he could lay hold of his man the other was again on his legs, 
and was prepared to renew the combat. They grappled each 
other — Bagg says he had not much fear of the result, as he now 
felt himself the best man, the other seeming half stunned with the 
blow — but just then there came on a blast, a horrible roaring wind 
bearing night upon its wings, snow, and sleet, and hail. Bagg says he 
had the fellow by the throat quite fast, as he thought, but suddenly 
he became bewildered, and knew not where he was ; and the man 
seemed to melt away from his grasp, and the wind howled more 
and more, and the night poured down darker and darker, the 
snow and the sleet thicker and more blinding. ‘ Lord have mercy 
upon us ! * said Bagg. 

Myself. A strange adventure that ; it is well that Bagg got 
home alive. 

John. He says that the fight was a fair fight, and that the 
fling he got was a fair fling, the result of a common enough 
wrestling trick. But with respect to the storm, which rose up 
just in time to save the fellow, he is of opinion that it was not 
fair, but something Irish and supernatural. 

Myself. I dare say he’s right. I have read of withcraft in 
the Bible. 

John. He wishes much to have one more encounter with the 
fellow ; he says that on fair ground, and in fine weather, he has 
no doubt that he could master him, and hand him over to the 
quarter sessions. He says that a hundred pounds would be no 
bad thing to be disbanded upon ; for he wishes to take an inn at 
Swanton Morley, keep a cock-pit, and live respectably. 

Myself. He is quite right; and now kiss me, my darling 
brother, for I must go back through the bog to Templemore. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


And it came to pass that, as I was standing by the door of the 
barrack stable, one of the grooms came out to me, saying, “ I say, 
young gentleman, I wish you would give the cob a breathing this 
fine morning.” 

“ Why do you wish me to mount him ? ” said I ; “ you know 
he is dangerous. I saw him fling you off his back only a few 
days ago.” 

“ Why, that’s the very thing, master. I’d rather see anybody 
on his back than myself ; he does not like me ; but, to them he 
does, he can be as gentle as a lamb/’ 

“But suppose,” said I, “that he should not like me?” 

“We shall soon see that, master,” said the groom; “ and, if 
so be he shows temper, I will be the first to tell you to get 
down. But there’s no fear of that ; you have never angered or 
insulted him, and to such as you, I say again, he’ll be as gentle as 
a lamb.” 

“And how came you to insult him,” said I, “knowing his 
temper as you do ? ” 

“ Merely through forgetfulness, master. I was riding him 
about a month ago, and having a stick in my hand, I struck him, 
thinking I was on another horse, or rather thinking of nothing at 
all. He has never forgiven me, though before that time he was 
the only friend I had in the world ; I should like to see you on 
him, master.” 

“ I should soon be off him ; I can’t ride.” 

“Then you are all right, master; there’s no fear. Trust him 
for not hurting a young gentleman, an officer’s son who can’t ride. 
If you were a blackguard dragoon, indeed, with long spurs, ’twere 
another thing; as it is, he’ll treat you as if he were the elder 
brother that loves you. Ride ! he’ll soon teach you to ride, if 
you leave the matter with him. He’s the best riding master in 
all Ireland, and the gentlest.” 

The cob was led forth ; what a tremendous creature ! I had 
frequently seen him before, and wondered at him ; he was barely 
fifteen hands, but he had the girth of a metropolitan dray-horse ; 

( 78 ) 


THE FIRST RIDE. 


79 


1816.] 


his head was small in comparison with his immense neck, which 
curved down nobly to his wide back. His chest was broad and 
fine, and his shoulders models of symmetry and strength ; he 
stood well and powerfully upon his legs, which were somewhat 
short. In a word, he was a gallant specimen of the genuine Irish 
cob, a species at one time not uncommon, but at the present day 
nearly extinct. 

“There! ” said the groom, as he looked at him, half-admir- 
ingly, half-sorrowfully, “ with sixteen stone on his back, he’ll trot 
fourteen miles in one hour ; with your nine stone, some two and 
half more, ay, and clear a six-foot wall at the end of it.” 

“I’m half afraid, ” said I ; “ I had rather you would ride him.’’ 

“ I’d rather so, too, if he would let me ; but he remembers 
the blow. Now, don’t be afraid, young master, he’s longing to 
go out himself. He’s been trampling with his feet these three 
days, and I know what that means; he’ll let anybody ride him 
but myself, and thank them ; but to me he says, ‘ No ! you 
struck me’”. 

“ But, ” said I, “ where’s the saddle ? ’’ 

“ Never mind the saddle ; if you are ever to be a frank rider, 
you must begin without a saddle ; besides, if he felt a saddle, he 
would think you don’t trust him, and leave you to yourself. 
Now, before you mount, make his acquaintance — see there, how 
he kisses you and licks your face, and see how he lifts his foot, 
that’s to shake hands. You may trust him — now you are on his 
back at last ; mind how you hold the bridle — gently, gently ! I’ts 
not four pair of hands like yours can hold him if he wishes to be 
off. Mind what I tell you — leave it all to him.” 

Off went the cob at a slow and gentle trot, too. fast and rough, 
however, for so inexperienced a rider. I soon felt myself sliding 
off, the animal perceived it too, and instantly stood stone still till 
I had righted myself; and now the groom came up : “ When you 
feel yourself going, ” said he, “don’t lay hold of the mane, that’s 
no use; mane never yet saved man from falling, no more than 
straw from drowning ; it’s his sides you must cling to with your 
calves and feet, till you learn to balance yourself. That’s it, now 
abroad with you ; I’ll bet my comrade a pot of beer that you’ll 
be a regular rough rider by the time you come back.” 

And so it proved ; I followed the directions of the groom, and 
the cob gave me every assistance. How easy is riding, after the 
first timidity is got over, to supple and youthful limbs ; and there 
is no second fear. The creature soon found that the nerves of 
his rider were in proper tone. Turning his head half round he 


8o 


LA VENGRO. 


[1816. 


made a kind of whining noise, flung out a little foam, and set 
off. 

In less than two hours I had made the circuit of the Devil’s 
Mountain, and was returning along the road, bathed with per- 
spiration, but screaming with delight; the cob laughing in his 
equine way, scattering foam and pebbles to the left and right, 
and trotting at the rate of sixteen miles an hour. 

Oh, that ride ! that first ride ! — most truly it was an epoch in 
my existence ; and I still look back to it with feelings of longing 
and regret. People may talk of first love — it is a very agreeable 
event, I dare say — but give me the flush, and triumph, and 
glorious sweat of a first ride, like mine on the mighty cob ! My 
whole frame was shaken, it is true ; and during one long week I 
could hardly move foot or hand ; but what of that ? By that one 
trial I had become free, as I may say, of the whole equine 
species. No more fatigue, no more stiffness of joints, after that 
first ride round the Devil’s Hill on the cob. 

Oh, that cob ! that Irish cob ! — may the sod lie lightly over 
the bones of the strongest, speediest, and most gallant of its 
kind ! Oh ! the days when, issuing from the barrack-gate of 
Templemore, we commenced our hurry-skurry just as inclination 
led — now across the fields — direct over stone walls and running 
brooks — mere pastime for the cob ! — sometimes along the road 
to Thurles and Holy Cross, even to distant Cahir! — what was 
distance to the cob? 

It was thus that the passion for the equine race was first 
awakened within me — a passion which, up to the present time, 
has been rather on the increase than diminishing. It is no blind 
passion ; the horse being a noble and generous creature, intended 
by the All-Wise to be the helper and friend of man, to whom he 
stands next in the order of creation. On many occasions of my life 
I have been much indebted to the horse, and have found in him 
a friend and coadjutor, when human help and sympathy were not 
to be obtained. It is therefore natural enough that I should love 
the horse ; but the love which I entertain for him has always been 
blended with respect ; for I soon perceived that, though disposed 
to be the friend and helper of man, he is by no means inclined to 
be his slave ; in which respect he differs from the dog, who will 
crouch when beaten ; whereas the horse spurns, for he is aware 
of his own worth, and that he carries death within the horn of his 
heel. If, therefore, I found it easy to love the horse, I found it 
equally natural to respect him. 

I much question whether philology, or the passion for 


HORSES AND LANGUAGES . 


1816.] 


fii 


languages, requires so little of an apology as the love for horses. 
It has been said, I believe, that the more languages a man 
speaks, the more a man is he ; which is very true, provided he 
acquires languages as a medium for becoming acquainted with 
the thoughts and feelings of the various sections into which the 
human race is divided; but, in that case, he should rather be 
termed a philosopher than a philologist — between which two the 
difference is wide indeed ! An individual may speak and read a 
dozen languages, and yet be an exceedingly poor creature, scarcely 
half a man ; and the pursuit of tongues for their own sake, and 
the mere satisfaction of acquiring them, surely argues an intellect 
of a very low order ; a mind disposed to be satisfied with mean 
and grovelling things; taking more pleasure in the trumpery 
casket than in the precious treasure which it contains, in the 
pursuit of words, than in the acquisition of ideas. 

I cannot help thinking that it was fortunate for myself, who 
am, to a certain extent, a philologist, that with me the pursuit of 
languages has been always modified by the love of horses; for 
scarcely had I turned my mind to the former, when I also 
mounted the wild cob, and hurried forth in the direction of the 
Devil’s Hill, scattering dust and flint-stones on every side ; that 
ride, amongst other things, taught me that a lad with thews and 
sinews was intended by nature for something better than mere 
word-culling; and if I have accomplished anything in after life 
worthy of mentioning, I believe it may partly be attributed to the 
ideas which that ride, b)r setting my blood in a glow, infused into 
my brain. I might, otherwise, have become a mere philologist ; 
one of those beings who toil night and day in culling useless 
words for some opus magnUm which Murray will never publish, 
and nobody ever read — beings without enthusiasm, who, having 
never mounted a generous steed, cannot detect a good point in 
Pegasus himself; like a certain philologist, who, though ac- 
quainted with the exact value of every word in the Greek and 
Latin languages, could observe no particular beauty in one of the 
most glorious of Homer’s rhapsodies . 1 * * What knew he of Pegasus ? 
he had never mounted a generous steed ; the merest jockey, had 
the strain been interpreted to him, would have called it a brave 
song ! — I return to the brave cob. 

On a certain day I had been out on an excursion. In a 


1 MS., “like the philologist Scaliger, who, though acquainted with the exact 

value of every word in the Latin language, could see no beauty in the 4 Enchant- 

ments of Canidia,’ the master-piece of the prince of Roman poets. What knew 

he,” etc. 


6 


82 


LA VENGRO. 


[1816. 


cross-road, at some distance from the Satanic hill, the animal 
which I rode cast a shoe. By good luck a small village was at 
hand, at the entrance of which was a large shed, from which 
proceeded a most furious noise of hammering. Leading the cob 
by the bridle, I entered boldly. “ Shoe this horse, and do it 
quickly, a gough, ” said I to a wild grimy figure of a man, whom 
I found alone, fashioning a piece of iron. 

“ Arrigod yuit 1 ” said the fellow, desisting from his work and 
staring at me. 

“ O yes, I have money,” said I, “ and of the best ; ” and I 
pulled out an English shilling. 

“ Tabhair chugam ,” said the smith, stretching out his grimy 
hand. 

“ No, I sha’n’t,” said I ; “ some people are glad to get their 
money when their work is done.” 

The fellow hammered a little longer and then proceeded to 
shoe the cob, after having first surveyed it with attention. He 
performed his job rather roughly, and more than once appeared 
to give the animal unnecessary pain, frequently making use of 
loud and boisterous words. By the time the work was done, the 
creature was in a state of high excitement, and plunged and tore. 
The smith stood at a short distance, seeming to enjoy the irrita- 
tion of the animal, and showing, in a remarkable manner, a huge 
fang, which projected from the under jaw of a very wry mouth. 

“You deserve better handling,” said I, as I went up to the 
cob and fondled it; whereupon it whinnied, and attempted to 
touch my face with its nose. 

“ Are ye not afraid of that beast ? ” said the smith, showing 
his fang. “ Arrah, it’s vicious that he looks ! ” 

“ It’s at you, then ! — I don’t fear him ; ” and thereupon I 
passed under the horse, between his hind legs. 

“ And is that all you can do, agrah ? ” said the smith. 

“No,” said I, “ I can ride him.” 

“ Ye can ride him, and what else, agrah ? ” 

“ I can leap him over a six-foot wall,” said I. 

“ Over a wall, and what more, agrah ? ” 

“ Nothing more,” said I ; “ what more would you have ? ” 

“ Can you do this, agrah ? ” said the smith, and he uttered a 
word which I had never heard before, in a sharp pungent tone. 
The effect upon myself was somewhat extraordinary, a strange 
thrill ran through me ; but with regard to the cob it was terrible ; 
the animal forthwith became like one mad, and reared and kicked 
with the utmost desperation. 


THE FAIRY SMITH. 


83 


1816.] 


“ Can you do that, agrah ? ” said the smith. 

“What is it?” said I, retreating, “I never saw the horse so 
before.” 

“ Go between his legs, agrah,” said the smith, “ his hinder 
legs ; ” and he again showed his fang. 

“ I dare not,” said I, “ he would kill me.” 

“ He would kill ye ! and how do ye know that, agrah ? ” 

“ 1 feel he would,” said I, “ something tells me so.” 

“ And it tells ye truth, agrah ; but it’s a fine beast, and it’s 
a pity to see him in such a state : Is again arit leigeas ” — and here 
he uttered another word in a voice singularly modified, but sweet 
and almost plaintive ; the effect of it was as instantaneous as that 
of the other, but how different ! — the animal lost all its fury and 
became at once calm and gentle. The smith went up to it, coaxed 
and patted it, making use of various sounds of equal endearment ; 
then turning to me, and holding out once more the grimy hand, 
he said : “ And now ye will be giving me the Sassanach tenpence, 
agrah ? ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


From the wild scenes which I have attempted to describe in the 
latter pages I must now transport the reader to others of a widely 
different character. He must suppose himself no longer in Ire- 
land, but in the eastern corner of merry England. Bogs, ruins 
and mountains have disappeared amidst the vapours of the west : 
I have nothing more to say of them ; the region in which we are 
now is not famous for objects of that kind ; perhaps it flatters 
itself that it can produce fairer and better things, of some of which 
let me speak ; there is a fine old city before, us, and first of that 
let me speak. 

A fine old city, truly, is that, view it from whatever side you 
will ; but it shows best from the east, where the ground, bold and 
elevated, overlooks the fair and fertile valley in which it stands. 
Gazing from those heights, the eye beholds a scene which cannot 
fail to awaken, even in the least sensitive bosom, feelings of plea- 
sure and admiration. At the foot of the heights flows a narrow 
and deep river, with an antique bridge communicating with a long 
and narrow suburb, flanked on either side by rich meadows of the 
brightest green, beyond which spreads the city, the fine old city, 
perhaps the most curious specimen at present extant of the genu- 
ine old English town. Yes, there it spreads from north to south, 
with its venerable houses, its numerous gardens, its thrice twelve 
churches, its mighty mound, which, if tradition speaks true, was 
raised by human hands to serve as the grave heap of an old 
heathen king, who sits deep within it, with his sword in his hand 
and his gold and silver treasures about him. There is a grey old 
castle upon the top of that mighty mound ; and yonder, rising three 
hundred feet above the soil, from among those noble forest trees, be- 
hold that old Norman master-work, that cloud-encircled cathedral 
spire, around which a garrulous army of rooks and choughs con- 
tinually wheel their flight. Now, who can wonder that the children 
of that fine old city are proud of her, and offer up prayers for her 
prosperity? I, myself, who was not born within her walls, offer 
up prayers for her prosperity, that want may never visit her 
cottages, vice her palaces, and that the abomination of idolatry 



Entrance to Grammar School, Norwich. 

Lavengro.-] {Facing page 84. 



1816-17.] 


NORWICH. 


85 


may never pollute her temples. Ha, idolatry ! the reign of 
idolatry has been over there for many a long year, never more, 
let us hope, to return ; brave hearts in that old town have borne 
witness against it and sealed their testimony with their hearts’ 
blood — most precious to the Lord is the blood of His saints ! we 
are not far from hallowed ground. Observe ye not yon chalky 
precipice to the right of the Norman bridge ? On this side of the 
stream, upon its brow, is a piece of ruined wall, the last relic of 
what was of old a stately pile, whilst at its foot is a place called 
the Lollards’ Hole ; and with good reason, for many a saint of 
God has breathed his last beneath that white precipice, bearing 
witness against Popish idolatry, midst flame and pitch ; many a 
grisly procession has advanced along that suburb, across the old 
bridge, towards the Lollards’ Hole : furious priests in front, a 
calm pale martyr in the midst, a pitying multitude behind. It 
has had its martyrs, the venerable old town ! 

Ah ! there is good blood in that old city, and in the whole 
circumjacent region of which it is the capital. The Angles pos- 
sessed the land at an early period, which, however, they were 
eventually compelled to share with hordes of Danes and North- 
men, who flocked thither across the sea to found hearthsteads on 
its fertile soil. The present race, a mixture of Angles and Danes, 
still preserve much which speaks strongly of their northern an- 
cestry ; amongst them ye will find the light-brown hair of the 
north, the strong and burly forms of the north, many a wild 
superstition, ay, and many a wild name connected with the ancient 
history of the north and its sublime mythology ; the warm heart 
and the strong heart of the old Danes and Saxons still beats in 
those regions, and there ye will find, if anywhere, old northern 
hospitality and kindness of manner, united with energy, persever- 
ance and dauntless intrepidity ; better soldiers or mariners never 
bled in their country’s battles than those nurtured in those regions 
and within those old walls. It was yonder, to the west, that the 
great naval hero of Britain first saw the light ; he who annihilated 
the sea pride of Spain and dragged the humbled banner of France 
in triumph at his stern. He was born yonder towards the west, 
and of him there is a glorious relic in that old town ; in its dark 
flint guildhouse, the roof of which you can just descry rising above 
that maze of buildings, in the upper hall of justice, is a species of 
glass shrine, in which the relic is to be seen : a sword of curious 
workmanship, the blade is of keen Toledan steel, the heft of 
ivory and mother-of-pearl. ’Tis the sword of Cordova, won in 
bloodiest fray off St. Vincent’s promontory, and presented by 


86 


LA VENGRO. 


[1816-17 


Nelson to the old capital of the much-loved land of his birth. 
Yes, the proud Spaniard’s sword is to be seen in yonder guild- 
house, in the glass case affixed to the wall ; many other relics has 
the good old town, but none prouder than the Spaniard’s sword. 

Such was the place to which, when the war was over, my 
father retired : it was here that the old tired soldier set himself 
down with his little family. He had passed the greater part of 
his life in meritorious exertion in the service of his country, and 
his chief wish now was to spend the remainder of his days in 
quiet and respectability; his means, it is true, were not very 
ample ; fortunate it was that his desires corresponded with them : 
with a small fortune of his own, and with his half-pay as a royal 
soldier, he had no fears for himself or for his faithful partner and 
helpmate ; but then his children ! how was he to provide for them ? 
how launch them upon the wide ocean of the world ? This was, 
perhaps, the only thought which gave him uneasiness, and I 
believe that many an old retired officer at that time, and under 
similar circumstances, experienced similar anxiety; had the war 
continued, their children would have been, of course, provided for 
in the army, but peace now reigned, and the military career was 
closed to all save the scions of the aristocracy, or those who were 
in some degree connected with that privileged order, an advantage 
which few of these old officers could boast of ; they had slight 
influence with the great, who gave themselves very little trouble 
either about them or their families. 

“ I have been writing to the Duke,” said my father one day 
to my excellent mother, after we had been at home somewhat 
better than a year, “ I have been writing to the Duke of York 
about a commission for that eldest boy of ours. He, however, 
affords me no hopes ; he says that his list is crammed with names, 
and that the greater number of the candidates have better claims 
than my son.” 

“ I do not see how that can be,” said my mother. 

“ Nor do I,” replied my father. “ I see the sons of bankers 
and merchants gazetted every month, and I do not see what 
claims they have to urge, unless they be golden ones. However, 
I have not served my king fifty years to turn grumbler at this 
time of life. I suppose that the people at the head of affairs 
know what is most proper and convenient ; perhaps when the lad 
sees how difficult, nay, how impossible it is that he should enter 
the army, he will turn his mind to some other profession ; I 
wish he may ! ” 

“I think he has already,” said my mother; “you see how 


1816-17.] 


NORWICH. 


87 


fond he is of the arts, of drawing and painting, and, as far as I 
can judge, what he has already done is very respectable; his 
mind seems quite turned that way, and I heard him say the other 
day that he would sooner be a Michael Angelo than a general 
officer. But you are always talking of him ; what do you think 
of doing with the other child? ” 

“What, indeed!” said my father; “that is a consideration 
which gives me no little uneasiness. I am afraid it will be much 
more difficult to settle him in life than his brother. What is he 
fitted for, even were it in my power to provide for him ? God 
help the child ! I bear him no ill-will, on the contrary all love 
and affection ; but I cannot shut my eyes ; there is something so 
strange about him ! How he behaved in Ireland ! I sent him 
to school to learn Greek, and he picked up Irish ! ” 

“ And Greek as well,” said my mother. “ I heard him say 
the other day that he could read St. John in the original tongue.” 

“You will find excuses for him, I know,” said my father. 
“You tell me I am always talking of my first-born; I might 
retort by saying you are always thinking of the other ; but it is 
the way of women always to side with the second-born. There’s 
what’s-her-name in the Bible, by whose wiles the old blind man 
was induced to give to his second son the blessing which was the 
birthright of the other. I wish I had been in his place ! I should 
not have been so easily deceived ! no disguise would ever have 
caused me to mistake an impostor for my first-born. Though I 
must say for this boy that he is nothing like Jacob ; he is neither 
smooth nor sleek, and, though my second-born, is already taller 
and larger than his brother.” 

“Just so,” said my mother, “ his brother would make a far better 
Jacob than he.” 

“ I will hear nothing against my first-born,” said my father, 
“even in the way of insinuation: he is my joy and pride— the 
very image of myself in my youthful days, long before I fought 
Big Ben, though perhaps not quite so tall or strong built. As for 
the other, God bless the child ! I love him, I’m sure ; but I 
must be blind not to see the difference between him and his 
brother. Why, he has neither my hair nor my eyes ; and then 
his countenance ! why, ’tis absolutely swarthy, God forgive me ! 
I had almost said like that of a gypsy, but I have nothing to say 
against that ; the boy is not to be blamed for the colour of his 
face, nor for his hair and eyes ; but, then, his ways and manners ! 
I confess I do not like them, and that they give me no little 
uneasiness. I know that he kept very strange company when he 


88 


LA VENGRO. 


[1816-17. 


was in Ireland ; people of evil report, of whom terrible things 
were said — horse-witches and the like. I questioned him once 
or twice upon the matter, and even threatened him, but it was of no 
use ; he put on a look as if he did not understand me, a regular 
Irish look, just such a one as those rascals assume when they wish 
to appear all innocence and simplicity, and they full of malice and 
deceit all the time. I don’t like them ; they are no friends to old 
England, or its old king, God bless him ! They are not good 
subjects, and never were ; always in league with foreign enemies. 
When I was in the Coldstream, long before the Revolution, I 
used to hear enough about the Irish brigades kept by the French 
kings, to be a thorn in the side of the English whenever opportunity 
served. Old Sergeant Meredith once told me, that in the time of 
the Pretender there were always in London alone, a dozen of 
fellows connected with these brigades, with the view of seducing 
the king’s soldiers from their allegiance, and persuading them to 
desert to France to join the honest Irish, as they were called. 
One of these traitors once accosted him and proposed the matter 
to him, offering handfuls of gold if he could induce any of his 
comrades to go over. Meredith appeared to consent, but secretly 
gave information to his colonel ; the fellow was seized, and certain 
traitorous papers found upon him ; he was hanged before Newgate, 
and died exulting in his treason. His name was Michael Nowlan. 
That ever son of mine should have been intimate with the Papist 
Irish, and have learnt their language ! ” 

“ But he thinks of other things now,” said my mother. 

“ Other languages, you mean,” said my father. “ It is strange 
that he has conceived such a zest for the study of languages ; no 
sooner did he come home than he persuaded me to send him to 
that old priest to learn French and Italian, and, if I remember 
right, you abetted him ; but, as I said before, it is in the nature 
of women invariably to take the part of the second-born. Well, 
there is no harm in learning French and Italian, perhaps much 
good in his case, as they may drive the other tongue out of his 
head. Irish ! why, he might go to the university but for that ; 
but how would he look when, on being examined with respect to 
his attainments, it was discovered that he understood Irish? 
How did you learn it ? they would ask him ; how did you become 
acquainted with the language of Papists and rebels ? The boy 
would be sent away in disgrace.” 

“ Be under no apprehension, I have no doubt that he has long 
since forgotten it.” 

“ I am glad to hear it,” said my father ; “ for, between our- 




































% 









1816-17.] 


NORWICH. 


89 


selves, I love the poor child ; ay, quite as well as my first-born. 
I trust they will do well, and that God will be their shield and 
guide ; I have no doubt He will, for I have read something in 
the Bible to that effect. What is that text about the young ravens 
being fed?” 

“ I know a better than that,” said my mother ; “ one of 
David’s own words, 1 1 have been young and now am grown old, 
yet never have I seen the righteous man forsaken, or his seed 
begging their bread 

I have heard talk of the pleasures of idleness, yet it is my own 
firm belief that no one ever yet took pleasure in it. Mere idle- 
ness is the most disagreeable state of existence, and both mind 
and body are continually making efforts to escape from it. It 
has been said that idleness is the parent of mischief, which is 
very true ; but mischief itself is merely an attempt to escape from 
the dreary vacuum of idleness. There are many tasks and 
occupations which a man is unwilling to perform, but let no one 
think that he is therefore in love with idleness ; he turns to some- 
thing which is more agreeable to his inclination, and doubtless 
more suited to his nature ; but he is not in love with idleness. 
A boy may play the truant from school because he dislikes books 
and study ; but, depend upon it, he intends doing something the 
while — to go fishing, or perhaps to take a walk ; and who knows 
but that from such excursions both his mind and body may derive 
more benefit than from books and school ? Many people go to 
sleep to escape from idleness ; the Spaniards do ; and, according 
to the French account, John Bull, the ’squire, hangs himself in 
the month of November ; but the French, who are a very sensible 
people, attribute the action, “ a une grande enviede se desennuyer 
he wishes to be doing something, say they, and having nothing 
better to do, he has recourse to the cord. 

It was for want of something better to do that, shortly after 
my return home, I applied myself to the study of languages. By 
the acquisition of Irish, with the first elements of which I had 
become acquainted under the tuition of Murtagh, I had con- 
tracted a certain zest and inclination for the pursuit. Yet it is 
probable, that had I been launched about this time into some 
agreeable career, that of arms, for example, for which, being the 
son of a soldier, I had, as was natural, a sort of penchant, I 
might have thought nothing more of the acquisition of tongues 
of any kind ; but, having nothing to do, I followed the only 
course suited to my genius which appeared open to me. 

So it came to pass that one day, whilst wandering listlessly 


go 


LA VENGRO. 


[1816-17. 


about the streets of the old town, I came to a small book-stall, 
and stopping, commenced turning over the books ; I took up at 
least a dozen, and almost instantly flung them down. What were 
they to me ? At last, coming to a thick volume, I opened it, 
and after inspecting its contents for a few minutes, I paid for it 
what was demanded, and forthwith carried it home. 

It was a tessara-glot grammar — a strange old book, printed 
somewhere in Holland, which pretended to be an easy guide to 
the acquirement of the French, Italian, Low Dutch, and English 
tongues, by means of which any one conversant in any one of 
these languages could make himself master of the other three. 
I turned my attention to the French and Italian. The old book 
was not of much value ; I derived some benefit from it, however, 
and, conning it intensely, at the end of a few weeks obtained some 
insight into the structure of these two languages. At length I 
had learnt all that the book was capable of informing me, yet 
was still far from the goal to which it had promised to conduct 
me. “ I wish I had a master ? ” I exclaimed ; and the master 
was at hand. In an old court of the old town lived a certain 
elderly personage, perhaps sixty, or thereabouts ; he was rather 
tall, and something of a robust make, with a countenance in 
which bluffness was singularly blended with vivacity and grimace ; 
and with a complexion which would have been ruddy, but for a 
yellow hue which rather predominated. His dress consisted of 
a snuff-coloured coat and drab pantaloons, the former evidently 
seldom subjected to the annoyance of a brush, and the latter ex- 
hibiting here and there spots of something which, if not grease, 
bore a strong resemblance to it ; add to these articles an immense 
frill, seldom of the purest white, but invariably of the finest 
French cambric, and you have some idea of his dress. He had 
rather a remarkable stoop, but his step was rapid and vigorous, 
and as he hurried along the streets, he would glance to the right 
and left with a pair of big eyes like plums, and on recognising 
any one would exalt a pair of grizzled eyebrows, and slightly kiss 
a tawny and ungloved hand. At certain hours of the day he 
might be seen entering the doors of female boarding-schools, 
generally with a book in his hand, and perhaps another just 
peering from the orifice of a capacious back pocket ; and at a 
certain season of the year he might be seen, dressed in white, 
before the altar of a certain small popish chapel, chanting from 
the breviary in very intelligible Latin, or perhaps reading from the 
desk in utterly unintelligible English. Such was my preceptor in 
the French and Italian tongues. “ Exul sacerdos ; vone banished 
esprit. I came into England twenty-five years ago, ‘ my dear.’ ” 


CHAPTER XV. 


So I studied French and Italian under the tuition of the banished 
priest, to whose house I went regularly every evening to receive 
instruction. I made considerable progress in the acquisition of 
the two languages. I found the French by far the most difficult, 
chiefly on account of the accent, which my master himself pos- 
sessed in no great purity, being a Norman by birth. The Italian 
was my favourite. 

“ Vous serez un jour un grand philologue , mon cher ,” said 
the old man, on our arriving at the conclusion of Dante’s Hell. 

“ I hope I shall be something better,” said I, “ before I die, 
or I shall have lived to little purpose.” 

“ That’s true, my dear ! philologist — one small poor dog. 
What would you wish to be ? ” 

“ Many things sooner than that ; for example, I would rather 
be like him who wrote this book.” 

“ Quoi, Monsieur Dante ? He was a vagabond, my dear, 
forced to fly from his country. No, my dear, if you would be 
like one poet, be like Monsieur Boileau ; he is the poet.” 

“ I don’t think so.” 

“ How, not think so ! He wrote very respectable verses ; 
lived and died much respected by everybody. T’other, one bad 
dog, forced to fly from his country — died with not enough to 
pay his undertaker.” 

“Were you not forced to flee from your country ? ” 

“ That very true ; but there is much difference between me 
and this Dante. He fled from country because he had one bad 
tongue which he shook at his betters. I fly because benefice 
gone, and head going; not on account of the badness of my 
tongue.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ you can return now ; the Bourbons are 
restored.” 

“ I find myself very well here; not bad country. II est vrai 
que la France sera toujours la France ; but all are dead there 
who knew me. I find myself very well here. Preach in popish 

(91) 


92 


LA VENGRO. 


[1817 


chapel, teach schismatic, that is Protestant, child tongues and 
literature. I find myself very well ; and why ? Because I know 
how to govern my tongue ; never call people hard names. Ma 
foi , il y a beaucoup de difference enire moi et ce sacre de Dante? 

Under this old man, who was well versed in the southern 
languages, besides studying French and Italian, I acquired some 
knowledge of Spanish. But I did not devote my time entirely to 
philology ; I had other pursuits. I had not forgotten the roving 
life I had led in former days, nor its delights; neither was I 
formed by Nature to be a pallid indoor student. No, no ! I was 
fond of other and, I say it boldly, better things than study. I 
had an attachment to the angle, ay, and to the gun likewise. In 
our house was a condemned musket, bearing somewhere on its 
lock, in rather antique characters, “Tower, 1746”; with this 
weapon I had already, in Ireland, performed some execution 
among the rooks and choughs, and it was now again destined to 
be a source of solace and amusement to me, in the winter season, 
especially on occasions of severe frost when birds abounded. 
Sallying forth with it at these times, far into the country, I seldom 
returned at night without a string of bullfinches, blackbirds, and 
linnets hanging in triumph round my neck. When I reflect on 
the immense quantity of powder and shot which I crammed down 
the muzzle of my uncouth fowling-piece, I am less surprised at 
the number of birds which I slaughtered, than that I never blew 
my hands, face, and old honey-combed gun, at one and the same 
time, to pieces. 

But the winter, alas ! (I speak as a fowler) seldom lasts in 
England more than three or four months ; so, during the rest of 
the year, when not occupied with my philological studies, I had 
to seek for other diversions. I have already given a hint that I 
was also addicted to the angle. Of course there is no comparison 
between the two pursuits, the rod and line seeming but very poor 
trumpery to one who has had the honour of carrying a noble 
firelock. There is a time, however, for all things ; and we return 
to any favourite amusement with the greater zest, from being 
compelled to relinquish it for a season. So, if I shot birds in 
winter with my firelock, I caught fish in summer, or attempted so 
to do, with my angle. I was not quite so successful, it is true, 
with the latter as with the former — possibly because it afforded 
me less pleasure. It was, indeed, too much of a listless pastime 
to inspire me with any great interest. I not unfrequently fell into 
a doze whilst sitting on the bank, and more than once let my rod 
drop from my hands into the water, 


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93 


1817.] 


At some distance from the city, behind a range of hilly ground 
which rises towards the south-west, is a small river, the waters of 
which, after many meanderings, eventually enter the principal 
river of the district, and assist to swell the tide which it rolls down 
to the ocean. It is a sweet rivulet, and pleasant it is to trace its 
course from its spring-head, high up in the remote regions of 
Eastern Anglia, till it arrives in the valley behind yon rising 
ground ; and pleasant is that valley, truly a goodly spot, but most 
lovely where yonder bridge crosses the little stream. Beneath its 
arch the waters rush garrulously into a blue pool, and are there 
stilled for a time, for the pool is deep, and they appear to have 
sunk to sleep. Farther on, however, you hear their voice again, 
where they ripple gaily over yon gravelly shallow. On the left, 
the hill slopes gently down to the margin of the stream. On the 
right is a green level, a smiling meadow, grass of the richest decks 
the side of the slope ; mighty trees also adorn it, giant elms, the 
nearest of which, when the sun is nigh its meridian, fling a broad 
shadow upon the face of the pool ; through yon vista you catch a 
glimpse of the ancient brick of an old English hall. It has a 
stately look, that old building, indistinctly seen, as it is, among 
those umbrageous trees ; you might almost suppose it an earl’s 
home; and such it was, or rather upon its site stood an earl’s 
home, in days of old, for there some old Kemp, some Sigurd, or 
Thorkild, roaming in quest of a hearthstead, settled down in the 
gray old time, when Thor and Freya were yet gods, and Odin was 
a portentous name. Yon old hall is still called the Earl’s Home, 
though the hearth of Sigurd is now no more, and the bones of the 
old Kemp, and of Sigrith his dame, have been mouldering for a 
thousand years in some neighbouring knoll — perhaps yonder, where 
those tall Norwegian pines shoot up so boldly into the air. It is 
said that the old earl's galley was once moored where is now that 
blue pool, for the waters of that valley were not always sweet; 
yon valley was once an arm of the sea, a salt lagoon, to which the 
war-barks of “ Sigurd, in search of a home,” found their way. 

I was in the habit of spending many an hour on the banks of 
that rivulet, with my rod in my hand, and, when tired with angling, 
would stretch myself on the grass, and gaze upon the waters as 
they glided past ; and not unfrequently, divesting myself of my 
dress, I would plunge into the deep pool which I have already 
mentioned, for I had long since learned to swim. And it came to 
pass, that on one hot summer’s day, after bathing in the pool, I 
passed along the meadow till I came to a shallow part, and, 
wading over to the opposite side, I adjusted my dress, and com- 


94 


LA VENGRO. 


[1817. 


menced fishing in another pool, beside which was a small clump 
of hazels. 

And there I sat upon the bank, at the bottom of the hill which 
slopes down from “the Earl’s Home”; my float was on the 
waters, and my back was towards the old hall. I drew up many 
fish, small and great, which I took from off the hook mechanically 
and flung upon the bank, for I was almost unconscious of what I 
was about, for my mind was not with my fish. I was thinking of 
my earlier years — of the Scottish crags and the heaths of Ireland — 
and sometimes my mind would dwell on my studies — on the 
sonorous stanzas of Dante, rising and falling like the waves of the 
sea — or would strive to remember a couplet or two of poor 
Monsieur Boileau. 

“Canst thou answer to thy conscience for pulling all those 
fish out of the water, and leaving them to gasp in the sun ? ” said 
a voice, clear and sonorous as a bell. 

I started, and looked round. Close behind me stood the tall 
figure of a man, dressed in raiment of quaint and singular fashion, 
but of goodly materials. He was in the prime and vigour of 
manhood ; his features handsome and noble, but full of calmness 
and benevolence ; at least I thought so, though they were some- 
what shaded by a hat of finest beaver, with broad drooping eaves. 

“ Surely that is a very cruel diversion in which thou indulgest, 
my young friend,” he continued. 

“ I am sorry for it, if it be, sir,” said I, rising ; “ but I do not 
think it cruel to fish.” 

“ What are thy reasons for not thinking so ? ” 

“ Fishing is mentioned frequently in Scripture. Simon Peter 
was a fisherman.” 

“True; and Andrew and his brother. But thou forgettest : 
they did not follow fishing as a diversion, as I fear thou doest. 
Thou readest the Scriptures ? ” 

“ Sometimes.” 

“Sometimes? not daily? that is to be regretted. What pro- 
fession dost thou make ? I mean to what religious denomination 
dost thou belong, my young friend ? ” 

“Church.” 

“It is a very good profession — there is much of Scripture 
contained in its liturgy. Dost thou read aught besides the 
Scriptures ? ” 

“ Sometimes.” 

“What dost thou read besides?” 

“ Greek, and Dante.” 


THE MAN OF PEACE. 


95 


1817.] 


“Indeed! then thou hast the advantage over myself; I can 
only read the former. Well, I am rejoiced to find that thou hast 
other pursuits besides thy fishing. Dost thou know Hebrew? ” 

“ No.” 

“Thou shouldst study it. Why dost thou not undertake the 
study?” 

“ I have no books.” 

“ I will lend thee books, if thou wish to undertake the study. 
I live yonder at the hall, as perhaps thou knowest. I have a 
library there, in which are many curious books, both in Greek 
and Hebrew, which I will show to thee, whenever thou mayest 
find it convenient to come and see me. Farewell ! I am glad to 
find that thou hast pursuits more satisfactory than thy cruel 
fishing.” 

And the man of peace departed, and left me on the bank of 
the stream. Whether from the effect of his words, or from want 
of inclination to the sport, I know not, but from that day I became 
less and less a practitioner of that “ cruel fishing ”. I rarely flung 
line and angle into the water, but I not unfrequently wandered 
by the banks of the pleasant rivulet. It seems singular to me, on 
reflection, that I never availed myself of his kind invitation. I 
say singular, for the extraordinary, under whatever form, had long 
had no slight interest for me ; and I had discernment enough to 
perceive that yon was no common man. Yet I went not near 
him, certainly not from bashfulness, or timidity, feelings to which 
I had long been an entire stranger. Am I to regret this ? perhaps, 
for I might have learned both wisdom and righteousness from 
those calm, quiet lips, and my after-course might have been 
widely different. As it was, I fell in with other guess companions, 
from whom I received widely different impressions than those I 
might have derived from him. When many years had rolled on, 
long after I had attained manhood, and had seen and suffered 
much, and when our first interview had long since been effaced 
from the mind of the man of peace, I visited him in his venerable 
hall, and partook of the hospitality of his hearth. And there I 
saw his gentle partner and his fair children, and on the morrow 
he showed me the books of which he had spoken years before, 
by the side of the stream. In the low quiet chamber, whose one 
window, shaded by a gigantic elm, looks down the slope towards 
the pleasant stream, he took from the shelf his learned books, 
Zohar and Mishna, Toldoth Jesu and Abarbenel. 

“I am fond of these studies,” said he, “which, perhaps, is 
not to be wondered at, seeing that our people have been compared 


g6 


LA VENGRO. 


[1817. 


to the Jews. In one respect I confess we are similiar to them : 
we are fond of getting money. I do not like this last author, this 
Abarbenel, the worse for having been a money-changer. I am a 
banker myself, as thou knowest.” 

And would there were many like him, amidst the money- 
changers of princes ! The hall of many an earl lacks the bounty, 
the palace of many a prelate the piety and learning, which adorn 
the quiet Quaker’s home 1 


CHAPTER XVI. 


I was standing on the castle hill in the midst of a fair of horses. 

I have already had occasion to mention this castle. It is the 
remains of what was once a Norman stronghold, and is perched 
upon a round mound or monticle, in the midst of the old city 
Steep is this mound and scarped, evidently by the hand of man ; 
a deep gorge, over which is flung a bridge, separates it, on the 
south, from a broad swell of open ground called “ the hill ; ” 
of old the scene of many a tournament and feat of Norman 
chivalry, but now much used as a show-place for cattle, where 
those who buy and sell beeves and other beasts resort at stated 
periods. 

So it came to pass that I stood upon this hill, observing a fair 
of horses. 

The reader is already aware that I had long since conceived 
a passion for the equine race, a passion in which circumstances 
had of late not permitted me to indulge. I had no horses to ride, 
but I took pleasure in looking at them ; and I had already attended 
more than one of these fairs : the present was lively enough, 
indeed, horse fairs are seldom dull. There was shouting and 
whooping, neighing and braying; there was galloping and trot- 
ting ; fellows with highlows and white stockings, and with many 
a string dangling from the knees of their tight breeches, were 
running desperately, holding horses by the halter, and in some 
cases dragging them along ; there were long-tailed steeds, and 
dock-tailed steeds of every degree and breed ; there were droves 
of wild ponies, and long rows of sober cart horses ; there were 
donkeys, and even mules : the last rare things to be seen in damp, 
misty England, for the mule pines in mud and rain, and thrives 
best with a hot sun above and a burning sand below. There 
were — oh, the gallant creatures ! I hear their neigh upon the 
wind ; there were — goodliest sight of all — certain enormous 
quadrupeds only seen to perfection in our native isle, led about 
by dapper grooms, their manes ribanded and their tails curiously 
clubbed and balled. Ha ! ha ! — how distinctly do they say, ha ! 
ha ! 


(97) 


7 


g8 


LA VENGRO. 


[1:817. 


An old man draws nigh, he is mounted on a lean pony, and 
he leads by the bridle one of these animals ; nothing very remark- 
able about that creature, unless in being smaller than the rest and 
gentle, which they are not ; he is not of the sightliest look ; he is 
almost dun, and over one eye a thick film has gathered. But 
stay ! there is something remarkable about that horse, there is 
something in his action in which he differs from all the rest. As 
he advances, the clamour is hushed ! all eyes are turned upon 
him — what looks of interest — of respect — and, what is this ? 
people are taking off their hats — surely not to that steed ! Yes, 
verily ! men, especially old men, are taking off their hats to that 
one-eyed steed, and I hear more than one deep-drawn ah ! 

“What horse is that?” said I to a very old fellow, the 
counterpart of the old man on the pony, save that the last wore a 
faded suit of velveteen, and this one was dressed in a white frock. 

“ The best in mother England,” said the very old man, taking 
a knobbed stick from his mouth, and looking me in the face, at 
first carelessly, but presently with something like interest ; “ he 
is old like myself, but can still trot his twenty miles an hour. 
You won’t live long, my swain ; tall and overgrown ones like 
thee never does ; yet, if you should chance to reach my years, 
you may boast to thy great grand boys, thou hast seen Marshland 
Shales.” 

Amain I did for the horse what I would neither do for earl or 
baron, doffed my hat ; yes ! I doffed my hat to the wondrous 
horse, the fast trotter, the best in mother England ; and I, too, 
drew a deep ah ! and repeated the words of the old fellows around. 
“ Such a horse as this we shall never see again ; a pity that he is 
so old.” 

Now during all this time I had a kind of consciousness that 
I had been the object of some person’s observation ; that eyes 
were fastened upon me from somewhere in the crowd. Some- 
times I thought myself watched from before, sometimes from 
behind; and occasionally methought that, if I just turned my 
head to the right or left, I should meet a peering and inquiring 
glance; and, indeed, once or twice I did turn, expecting to see 
somebody whom I knew, yet always without success ; though it 
appeared to me that I was but a moment too late, and that some 
one had just slipped away from the direction to which I turned, 
like the figure in a magic lanthorn. Once I was quite sure that 
there were a pair of eyes glaring over my right shoulder; my 
attention, however, was so fully occupied with the objects which 
I have attempted to describe, that I thought very little of this 









TOM BLAND FAIR. 


99 


1817,] 


coming and going, this flitting and dodging of I knew not whom 
or what. It was, after all, a matter of sheer indifference to me 
who was looking at me. I could only wish, whomsoever it might 
be, to be more profitably employed; so I continued enjoying 
what I saw ; and now there was a change in the scene, the 
wondrous old horse departed with his aged guardian; other 
objects of interest are at hand ; two or three men on horseback 
are hurrying through the crowd, they are widely different in their 
appearance from the other people of the fair; not so much in 
dress, for they are clad something after the fashion of rustic 
jockeys, but in their look — no light brown hair have they, no 
ruddy cheeks, no blue quiet glances belong to them ; their 
features are dark, their locks long, black and shining, and their 
eyes are wild ; they are admirable horsemen, but they do not sit 
the saddle in the manner of common jockeys, they seem to float 
or hover upon it, like gulls upon the waves ; two of them are 
mere striplings, but the third is a very tall man with a countenance 
heroically beautiful, but wild, wild, wild. As they rush along, 
the crowd give way on all sides, and now a kind of ring or circus 
is formed, within which the strange men exhibit their horseman- 
ship, rushing past each other, in and out, after the manner of a 
reel, the tall man occasionally balancing himself upon the saddle, 
and standing erect on one foot. He had just regained his seat 
after the latter feat, and was about to push his horse to a gallop, 
when a figure started forward close from beside me, and laying 
his hand on his neck, and pulling him gently downward, appeared 
to whisper something into his ear ; presently the tall man raised 
his head, and, scanning the crowd for a moment in the direction 
in which I was standing, fixed his eyes full upon me, and anon the 
countenance of the whisperer was turned, but only in part, and 
the side-glance of another pair of wild eyes was directed towards 
my face, but the entire visage of the big black man half stooping 
as he was, was turned full upon mine. 

But now, with a nod to the figure who had stopped him, and 
with another inquiring glance at myself, the big man once more 
put his steed into motion, and after riding round the ring a few 
more times darted through a lane in the crowd, and followed by 
his two companions disappeared, whereupon the figure who had 
whispered to him and had subsequently remained in the middle 
of the space, came towards me, and cracking a whip which he 
held in his hand so loudly that the report was nearly equal to that 
of a pocket pistol, he cried in a strange tone : — 

“ What ! the sap-engro ? Lor ! the sap-engro upon the hill ! ” 


100 


LA VENGRO. 


[1817. 


“ I remember that word,” said I, “ and I almost think I remem- 
ber you. You can’t be ” 

“ Jasper, your pal ! Truth, and no lie, brother.” 

“ It is strange that you should have known me,” said I. “I 
am certain, but for the word you used, I should never have re- 
cognised you.” 

“ Not so strange as you may think, brother ; there is some- 
thing in your face which would prevent people from forgetting 
you, even though they might wish it ; and your face is not much 
altered since the time you wot of, though you are so much grown. 
I thought it was you, but to make sure I dodged about, inspect- 
ing you. I believe you felt me, though I never touched you ; a 
sign, brother, that we are akin, that we are dui palor — two rela- 
tions. Your blood beat when mine was near, as mine always 
does at the coming of a brother ; and we became brothers in that 
lane.” 

“ And where are you staying?” said I ; “ in this town ? ” 

“ Not in the town ; the like of us don’t find it exactly whole- 
some to stay in towns ; we keep abroad. But I have little to do 
nere — come with me and I’ll show you where we stay.” 

We descended the hill in the direction of the north, and 
passing along the suburb reached the old Norman bridge, which 
we crossed ; the chalk precipice, with the ruin on its top, was 
now before us ; but turning to the left we walked swiftly along, 
and presently came to some rising ground, which ascending, we 
found ourselves upon a wild moor or heath. 

“ You are one of them,” said I, “ whom people call ” 

“Just so,” said Jasper; “but never mind what people call 
us.” 

“And that tall handsome man on the hill, whom you whis- 
pered ? I suppose he’s one of ye. What is his name ? ” 

“ Tawno Chikno,” said Jasper, “ which means the small one ; 
we call him such because he is the biggest man of all our nation. 
You say he is handsome, that is not the word, brother ; he’s the 
beauty of the world. Women run wild at the sight of Tawno. 
An earl’s daughter, near London — a fine young lady with diamonds 
round her neck — fell in love with Tawno. I have seen that lass 
on a heath, as this may be, kneel down to Tawno, clasp his feet, 
begging to be his wife — or anything else — if she might go with 
him. But Tawno would have nothing to do with her. ‘ I have 
a wife of my own,’ said he, ‘ a lawful Rommany wife, whom I 
love better than the whole world, jealous though she sometimes 
be’.” 


MOUSE HOLD HEATH . 


lot 


1817.] 


“ And is she very beautiful ? ” said I. 

“ Why, you know, brother, beauty is frequently a matter of 
taste ; however, as you ask my opinion, I should say not quite so 
beautiful as himself.” 

We had now arrived at a small valley between two hills or 
downs, the sides of which were covered with furze. In the midst 
of this valley were various carts and low tents forming a rude kind 
of encampment ; several dark children were playing about, who 
took no manner of notice of us. As we passed one of the tents, 
however, a canvas screen was lifted up, and a woman supported 
upon a crutch hobbled out. She was about the middle age, and, 
besides being lame, was bitterly ugly ; she was very slovenly 
dressed, and on her swarthy features ill nature was most visibly 
stamped. She did not deign me a look, but addressing Jasper in 
a tongue which I did not understand, appeared to put some eager 
questions to him. 

“ He’s coming,” said Jasper, and passed on. “ Poor fellow,” 
said he to me, “ he has scarcely been gone an hour and she’s 
jealous already. Well,” he continued, “what do you think of 
her ? you have seen her now and can judge for yourself — that ’ere 
woman is Tawno Chikno’s wife ! ” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


We went to the farthest of the tents, which stood at a slight dis- 
tance from the rest, and which exactly resembled the one which I 
have described on a former occasion ; we went in and sat down, 
one on each side of a small fire which was smouldering on the 
ground, there was no one else in the tent but a tall tawny woman 
of middle age, who was busily knitting. “ Brother,” said Jasper, 
“ I wish to hold some pleasant discourse with you.” 

“ As much as you please,” said I, “ provided you can find 
anything pleasant to talk about.” 

“ Never fear,” said Jasper ; “ and first of all we will talk of 
yourself. Where have you been all this long time ? ” 

“ Here and there,” said I, “ and far and near, going about 
with the soldiers ; but there is no soldiering now, so we have sat 
down, father and family, in the town there.” 

“ And do you still hunt snakes ? ” said Jasper. 

“ No,” said I, “ I have given up that long ago ; I do better 
now : read books and learn languages.” 

“ Well, I am sorry you have given up your snake-hunting ; 
many’s the strange talk I have had with our people about your 
snake and yourself, and how you frightened my father and mother 
in the lane.” 

“ And where are your father and mother ? ” 

“ Where I shall never see them, brother ; at least, I hope so.” 

“ Not dead ? ” 

“ No, not dead ; they are bitchadey pawdel.” 

“ What’s that ? ” 

“ Sent across — banished.” 

“ Ah ! I understand ; I am sorry for them. And so you are 
here alone ? ” 

“Not quite alone, brother ! ” 

“No, not alone ; but with the rest — Tawno Chikno takes care 
of you.” 

“ Takes care of me, brother ! ” 

“ Yes, stands to you in the place of a father — keeps you out 
of harm’s way.” 


PLEASANT DISCOURSE. 


103 


1817.] 


“ What do you take me for, brother ? ” 

“For about three years older than myself.” 

“ Perhaps ; but you are of the Gorgios, and I am a Rommany 
Chal. Tawno Chikno take care of Jasper Petulengro ! ” 

“ Is that your name ? ” 

“ Don’t you like it ? ” 

“ Very much, I never heard a sweeter ; it is something like 
what you call me.” 

“ The horse-shoe master and the snake-fellow, I am the first.” 
“ Who gave you that name ? ” 

“ Ask Pharaoh.” 

“ I would, if he were here, but I do not see him.” 

“Iam Pharaoh.” 

“ Then you are a king.” 

“ Chachipen, pal.” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ Where are your languages ? You want two things, brother : 
mother sense and gentle Rommany.” 

“ What makes you think that I want sense ? ” 

“ That, being so old, you can’t yet guide yourself ! ” 

“ I can read Dante, Jasper.” 

“ Anan, brother.” 

“ I can charm snakes, Jasper.” 

“ I know you can, brother.” 

“Yes, and horses too ; bring me the most vicious in the land, 
if I whisper he’ll be tame.” 

“Then the more shame for you — a snake-fellow — a horse- 
witch — and a lil-reader — yet you can’t shift for yourself. I laugh 
at you, brother ! ” 

“ Then you can shift for yourself? ” 

“ For myself and for others, brother.” 

“ And what does Chikno ? ” 

“ Sells me horses, when I bid him. Those horses on the 
chong were mine.” 

“ And has he none of his own ? ” 

“Sometimes he has; but he is not so well off as myself. 
When my father and mother were bitchadey pawdel, which, to 
tell you the truth, they were, for chiving wafodo dloovu, they left 
me all they had, which was not a little, and I became the head 
of our family, which was not a small one. I was not older than 
you when that happened ; yet our people said they had never a 
better krallis to contrive and plan for them and to keep them in 
order. And this is so well known, that many Rommany Chals, 


104 


LA VENGRO. 


[1817. 


not of our family, come and join themselves to us, living with us 
for a time, in order to better themselves, more especially those of 
the poorer sort, who have little of their own. Tawno is one of 
these.” 

“ Is that fine fellow poor ?” 

“ One of the poorest, brother. Handsome as he is, he has 
not a horse of his own to ride on. Perhaps we may put it down 
to his wife, who cannot move about, being a cripple, as you saw.” 

“ And you are what is called a Gypsy King ? ” 

“ Ay, ay ; a Rommany Krai.” 

“ Are there other kings ? ” 

“Those who call themselves so; but the true Pharaoh is 
Petulengro.” 

“ Did Pharaoh make horse-shoes? ” 

“ The first who ever did, brother.” 

“ Pharaoh lived in Egypt.” 

“ So did we once, brother.” 

“ And you left it ? ” 

“ My fathers did, brother.” 

“ And why did they come here ? ” 

“ They had their reasons, brother.” 

“ And you are not English ?” 

“ We are not Gorgios.” 

“ And you have a language of your own ? ” 

“ Avali.” 

“ This is wonderful.” 

“ Ha, ha 1 ” cried the woman, who had hitherto sat knitting at 
the farther end of the tent, without saying a word, though not 
inattentive to our conversation, as I could perceive by certain 
glances which she occasionally cast upon us both. “ Ha, ha ! ” 
she screamed, fixing upon me two eyes, which shone like burning 
coals, and which were filled with an expression both of scorn and 
malignity, “ It is wonderful, is it, that we should have a language 
of our own ? What, you grudge the poor people the speech they 
talk among themselves ? That’s just like you Gorgios, you would 
have everybody stupid, single-tongued idiots, like yourselves. We 
are taken before the Poknees of the gav, myself and sister, to give 
an account of ourselves. So I says to my sister’s little boy, speak- 
ing Rommany, I says to the little boy who is with us, ‘ Run to my 
son Jasper, and the rest, and tell them to be off, there are hawks 
abroad ’. So the Poknees questions us, and lets us go, not being 
able to make anything of us ; but, as we are going, he calls us 
back. ‘Good woman,’ says the Poknees/ what was that I heard 


A RUM LANGUAGE. 


105 


1817.] 


you say just now to the little boy ? ’ ‘I was telling him, your 
worship, to go and see the time of day, and, to save trouble, I 
said it in our own language.’ ‘ Where did you get that language?’ 
says the Poknees. ‘ ’Tis our own language, sir,’ I tells him, ‘ we 
did not steal it.’ ‘ Shall I tell you what it is, my good woman ? ’ 
says the Poknees. ‘ I would thank you, sir,’ says I, * for ’tis often 
we are asked about it.’ ‘ Well, then,’ says the Poknees, ‘ it is no 
language at all, merely a made-up gibberish.’ ‘ Oh, bless your 
wisdom,’ says I, with a curtsey, ‘ you can tell us what our language 
is without understanding it ! ’ Another time we meet a parson. 
£ Good woman,’ says he, ‘ what’s that you are talking ? Is it 
broken language ? ’ ‘Of course, your reverence,’ says I, * we are 
broken people ; give a shilling, your reverence, to the poor broken 
woman.’ Oh, these Gorgios ! they grudge us our very language ! ” 
“ She called you her son, Jasper ? ” 

“ I am her son, brother.” 

“ I thought you said your parents were ” 

“ Bitchadey pawdel ; you thought right, brother. This is my 
wife’s mother.” 

“ Then you are married, Jasper ? ” 

“ Ay, truly ; I am husband and father. You will see wife and 
chabo anon.” 

“ Where are they now ? ” 

“ In the gav, penning dukkerin.” 

“ We were talking of language, Jasper ? ” 

“ True, brother.” 

“ Yours must be a rum one ? ” 

“ ’Tis called Rommany.” 

“ I would gladly know it.” 

“You need it sorely.” 

“ Would you teach it me ? ” 

“ None sooner.” 

“ Suppose we begin now.” 

“ Suppose we do, brother.” 

“ Not whilst I am here,” said the woman, flinging her knit- 
ting down, and starting upon her feet ; “ not whilst I am here shall 
this Gorgio learn Rommany. A pretty manoeuvre, truly ; and what 
would be the end of it ? I goes to the farming ker with my sister, 
to tell a fortune, and earn a few sixpences for the chabes. I sees 
a jolly pig in the yard, and I says to my sister, speaking Rom- 
many, ‘ Do so and so,’ says I ; which the farming man hearing, 
asks what we are talking about. ‘ Nothing at all, master,’ says I ; 
‘ something about the weather ’ ; when who should start up from 


o6 


LA VENGRO. 


[1&17. 


behind a pale, where he has been listening, but this ugly gorgio, 
crying out, ‘ They are after poisoning your pigs, neighbour ! ’ so 
that we are glad to run, I and my sister, with perhaps the farm- 
engro shouting after us. Says my sister to me, when we have 
got fairly off, ‘ How came that ugly one to know what you said to 
me?’ Whereupon I answers, ‘ It all comes of my son Jasper, who 
brings the gorgio to our fire, and must needs be teaching him 
‘ Who was fool there ? * says my sister. ‘ Who, indeed, but my 
son Jasper/ I answers. And here should I be a greater fool to 
sit still and suffer it ; which I will not do. I do not like the look of 
him ; he looks over-gorgious. An ill day to the Romans when he 
masters Rommany ; and when I says that, I pens a true dukkerin.” 

“ What do you call God, Jasper ?” 

“ You had better be jawing,” said the woman, raising her voice 
to a terrible scream ; “ you had better be moving off, my Gorgio ; 
hang you for a keen one, sitting there by the fire, and stealing my 
language before my face. Do you know whom you have to deal 
with ? Do you know that I am dangerous ? My name is Herne, 
and I comes of the hairy ones ! ” 

And a hairy one she looked ! She wore her hair clubbed 
upon her head, fastened with many strings and ligatures ; but 
now, tearing these off, her locks, originally jet black, but now 
partially grizzled with age, fell down on every side of her, covering 
her face and back as far down as her knees. No she-bear of 
Lapland ever looked more fierce and hairy than did that woman, 
as, standing in the open part of the tent, with her head bent down, 
and her shoulders drawn up, seemingly about to precipitate herself 
upon me, she repeated, again and again, — 

“ My name is Herne, and I comes of the hairy ones ! ” 

“ I call God Duvel, brother.” 

“ It sounds very like Devil.” 

“ It doth, brother, it doth.” 

“ And what do you call divine, I mean godly ?” 

“ Oh ! I call that duvelskoe.” 

“ I am thinking of something, Jasper.” 

“What are you thinking of, brother?” 

“Would it not be a rum thing if divine and devilish were 
originally one and the same word ? ” 

“ It would, brother, it would ” 


From this time I had frequent interviews with Jasper, some- 
times in his tent, sometimes on the heath, about which we would 
roam for hours, discoursing on various matters. Sometimes 


1817-18.] 


WORD-MASTER: 


toy 


mounted on one of his horses, of which he had several, I would 
accompany him to various fairs and markets in the neighbourhood, 
to which he went on his own affairs, or those of his tribe. I soon 
found that I had become acquainted with a most singular people, 
whose habits and pursuits awakened within me the highest interest. 
Of all connected with them, however, their language was doubtless 
that which exercised the greatest influence over my imagination. 
I had at first some suspicion that it would prove a mere made-up 
gibberish. But I was soon undeceived. Broken, corrupted, and 
half in ruins as it was, it was not long before I found that it was 
an original speech, far more so, indeed, than one or two others of 
high name and celebrity, which, up to that time, I had been in 
the habit of regarding with respect and veneration. Indeed, 
many obscure points connected with the vocabulary of these 
languages, and to which neither classic nor modern lore afforded 
any clue, I thought I could now clear up by means of this strange 
broken tongue, spoken by people who dwelt among thickets and 
furze bushes, in tents as tawny as their faces, and whom the 
generality of mankind designated, and with much semblance of 
justice, as thieves and vagabonds. But where did this speech 
come from, and who were they who spoke it? These were 
questions which I could not solve, and which Jasper himself, 
when pressed, confessed his inability to answer. “ But, whoever 
we be, brother,” said he, “ we are an old people, and not what 
folks in general imagine, broken gorgios; and, if we are not 
Egyptians, we are at any rate Rommany chals ! ” 

“ Rommany chals! I should not wonder after all,” said I, 
“that these people had something to do with the founding of 
Rome. Rome, it is said, was built by vagabonds; who knows 
but that some tribe of the kind settled down thereabouts, and 
called the town which they built after their name ; but whence 
did they come originally ? ah ! there is the difficulty.” 

But abandoning these questions, which at that time were far 
too profound for me, I went on studying the language, and at the 
same time the characters and manners of these strange people. 
My rapid progress in the former astonished, while it delighted, 
Jasper. “We’ll no longer call you Sap-engro, brother,” said he; 
“but rather Lav-engro, which in the language of the gorgios 
meaneth Word Master.” “ Nay, brother,” said Tawno Chikno, 
with whom I had become very intimate, “ you had better call him 
Cooro-mengro, I have put on the gloves with him, and find him a 
pure fist master ; I like him for that, for I am a Cooro-mengro 
myself, and was born at Brummagem.” 


io8 


LA VENGRO. 


[1817-18 


“ I likes him for his modesty,” said Mrs. Chikno ; “ I never 
hears any ill words come from his mouth, but, on the contrary, 
much sweet language. His talk is golden, and he has taught my 
eldest to say his prayers in Rommany, which my rover had never 
the grace to do. ,, “ He is the pal of my rom,” said Mrs. Petulengro, 
who was a very handsome woman, “and therefore I likes him, 
and not less for his being a rye ; folks calls me high-minded, and 
perhaps I have reason to be so ; before I married Pharaoh I had 
an offer from a lord — I likes the young rye, and, if he chooses to 
follow us, he shall have my sister. What say you, mother ? should 
not the young rye have my sister Ursula? ” 

“ I am going to my people,” said Mrs. Herne, placing a bundle 
upon a donkey, which was her own peculiar property ; “ I am 
going to Yorkshire, for I can stand this no longer. You say you 
like him ; in that we differs : I hates the gorgio, and would like, 
speaking Romanly, to mix a little poison with his waters. And 
now go to Lundra, my children, I goes to Yorkshire. Take my 
blessing with ye, and a little bit of a gillie to cheer your hearts 
with when ye are weary. In all kinds of weather have we lived 
together ; but now we are parted, I goes broken-hearted. I can’t 
keep you company; ye are no longer Rommany. To gain a bad 
brother, ye have lost a good mother.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


So the gypsies departed : Mrs. Herne to Yorkshire, and the rest 
to London. As for myself, I continued in the house of my parents, 
passing my time in much the same manner as I have already 
described, principally in philological pursuits. But I was now 
sixteen, and it was highly necessary that I should adopt some 
profession, unless I intended to fritter away my existence, and to 
be a useless burden to those who had given me birth. But what 
profession was I to choose ? there being none in the wide world 
perhaps for which I was suited ; nor was there any one for which 
I felt any decided inclination, though perhaps there existed within 
me a lurking penchant for the profession of arms, which was 
natural enough, as, from my earliest infancy, I had been accustomed 
to military sights and sounds ; but this profession was then closed, 
as I have already hinted, and, as I believe, it has since continued, 
to those who, like myself, had no better claims to urge than the 
services of a father. 

My father, who, for certain reasons of his own, had no very high 
opinion of the advantages resulting from this career, would have 
gladly seen me enter the Church. His desire was, however, 
considerably abated by one or two passages of my life, which 
occurred to his recollection. He particularly dwelt on the 
unheard-of manner in which I had picked up the Irish language, 
and drew from thence the conclusion that I was not fitted by 
nature to cut a respectable figure at an English university. “ He 
will fly off in a tangent,” said he, “and, when called upon to 
exhibit his skill in Greek, will be found proficient in Irish ; I 
have observed the poor lad attentively, and really do not know 
what to make of him ; but I am afraid he will never make a 
churchman ! ” And I have no doubt that my excellent father 
was right, both in his premises .and the conclusion at which he 
arrived. I had undoubtedly, at one period of my life, forsaken 
Greek for Irish, and the instructions of a learned Protestant 
divine for those of a Papist gassoon, the card-fancying Murtagh ; 
and of late, though I kept it a strict secret, I had abandoned in a 

(i° 9 ) 


no 


LA VENGRO. 


[1818. 


great measure the study of the beautiful Italian, and the recitation 
of the sonorous terzets of the Divine Comedy, in which at one 
time I took the greatest delight, in order to become acquainted 
with the broken speech, and yet more broken songs, of certain 
houseless wanderers whom I had met at a horse fair. Such an erratic 
course was certainly by no means in consonance with the sober 
and unvarying routine of college study. And my father, who was 
a man of excellent common sense, displayed it, in not pressing 
me to adopt a profession which required qualities of mind which 
he saw I did not possess. 

Other professions were talked of, amongst which the law; 
but now an event occurred which had nearly stopped my career, 
and merged all minor points of solicitude in anxiety for my life. 
My strength and appetite suddenly deserted me, and I began to 
pine and droop. Some said that I had overgrown myself, and 
that these were the symptoms of a rapid decline ; I grew worse 
and worse, and was soon stretched upon my bed, from which it 
seemed scarcely probable that I should ever more rise, the 
physicians themselves giving but slight hopes of my recovery ; 
as for myself, I made up my mind to die, and felt quite resigned. 
I was sadly ignorant at that time, and, when I thought of death, 
it appeared to me little else than a pleasant sleep, and I wished 
for sleep, of which I got but little. It was well that I did not 
die that time, for I repeat that I was sadly ignorant of many im- 
portant things. I did not die, for somebody coming, gave me 
a strange, bitter draught ; a decoction, I believe, of a bitter root 
which grows on commons and desolate places ; and the person 
who gave it me was an ancient female, a kind of doctress, who 
had been my nurse in my infancy, and who, hearing of my state, 
had come to see me; so I drank the draught, and became a little 
better, and I continued taking draughts made from the bitter 
root till I manifested symptoms of convalescence. 

But how much more quickly does strength desert the human 
frame than return to it ! I had become convalescent, it is true, but 
my state of feebleness was truly pitiable. I believe it is in that 
state that the most remarkable feature of human physiology fre- 
quently exhibits itself. Oh, how dare I mention the dark feeling 
of mysterious dread which comes over the mind, and which the 
lamp of reason, though burning bright the while, is unable to 
dispel ! Art thou, as leeches say, the concomitant of disease — 
the result of shattered nerves? Nay, rather the principle of 
woe itself, the fountain head of all sorrow co-existent with man, 
whose influence he feels when yet unborn, and whose workings 


1818-19.] 


THE BITTER DRAUGHT. 


hi 


he testifies with his earliest cries, when, “ drowned in tears,” he 
first beholds the light ; for, as the sparks fly upwards, so is man 
born to trouble, and woe doth he bring with him into the world, 
even thyself, dark one, terrible one, causeless, unbegotten, with- 
out a father. Oh, how unfrequently dost thou break down the 
barriers which divide thee from the poor soul of man, and over- 
cast its sunshine with thy gloomy shadow ! In the brightest days 
of prosperity — in the midst of health and wealth — how sentient 
is the poor human creature of thy neighbourhood ! how instinc- 
tively aware that the flood-gates of horror may be cast open, and 
the dark stream engulf him for ever and ever ! Then is it not 
lawful for man to exclaim, “ Better that I had never been born ! ” 
Fool, for thyself thou wast not born, but to fulfil the inscrutable 
decrees of thy Creator ; and how dost thou know that this dark 
principle is not, after all, thy best friend ; that it is not that which 
tempers the whole mass of thy corruption ? It may be, for what 
thou knowest, the mother of wisdom, and of great works ; it is 
the dread of the horror of the night that makes the pilgrim hasten 
on his way. When thou feelest it nigh, let thy safety word be 
“Onward”; if thou tarry, thou art overwhelmed. Courage! 
build great works — ’tis urging thee — it is ever nearest the favou- 
rites of God — the fool knows little of it. Thou wouldst be joyous, 
wouldst thou ? then be a fool. What great work was ever the 
result of joy, the puny one ? Who have been the wise ones, the 
mighty ones, the conquering ones of this earth ? the joyous ? I 
believe not. The fool is happy, or comparatively so — certainly 
the least sorrowful, but he is still a fool ; and whose notes are 
sweetest, those of the nightingale, or of the silly lark ? 

“ What ails you, my child ? ” said a mother to her son, as he 
lay on a couch under the influence of the dreadful one ; “ what 
ails you ? you seem afraid ! ” 

Boy. And so I am ; a dreadful fear is upon me. 

Mother. But of what ; there is no one can harm you ; of what 
are you apprehensive ? 

Boy. Of nothing that I can express ; I know not what I am 
afraid of, but afraid I am. 

Mother. Perhaps you see sights and visions ; I knew a lady 
once who was continually thinking that she saw an armed man 
threaten her, but it was only an imagination, a phantom of the 
brain. 

Boy. No armed man threatens me ; and ’tis not a thing like 
that would cause me any fear. Did an armed man threaten me, 


LA VENGRO. 


[1818-19. 


112 


I would get up and fight him ; weak as I am, I would wish for 
nothing better, for then, perhaps, I should lose this fear ; mine 
is a dread of I know not what, and there the horror lies. 

Mother. Your forehead is cool, and your speech collected. 
Do you know where you are ? 

Boy . I know where I am, and I see things just as they are ; 
you are beside me, and upon the table there is a book which 
was written by a Florentine ; all this I see, and that there is no 
ground for being afraid. I am, moreover, quite cool, and feel no 
pain — but, but 

And then there was a burst of “ gemiti, sospiri ed alti guai”. 
Alas, alas, poor child of clay ! as the sparks fly upward, so wast 
thou born to sorrow — Onward ! 1 


1 MS. note: “ Written in 1843 


CHAPTER XIX. 


It has been said by this or that writer, I scarcely know by whom, 
that, in proportion as we grow old, and our time becomes short, 
the swifter does it pass, until at last, as we approach the 
borders of the grave, it assumes all the speed and impetuosity of 
a river about to precipitate itself into an abyss ; this is doubtless 
the case, provided we can carry to the grave those pleasant 
thoughts and delusions which alone render life agreeable, and to 
which even to the very last we would gladly cling ; but what 
becomes of the swiftness of time, when the mind sees the vanity 
of human pursuits ? which is sure to be the case when its fondest, 
dearest hopes have been blighted at the very moment when the 
harvest was deemed secure. What becomes from that moment, 
I repeat, of the shortness of time ? I put not the question to 
those who have never known that trial ; they are satisfied with 
themselves and all around them, with what they have done and 
yet hope to do ; some carry their delusions with them to the 
borders of the grave, ay, to the very moment when they fall into 
it ; a beautiful golden cloud surrounds them to the last, and such 
talk of the shortness of time ; through the medium of that cloud 
the world has ever been a pleasant world to them ; their only 
regret is that they are so soon to quit it ; but oh, ye dear deluded 
hearts, it is not every one who is so fortunate ! 

To the generality of mankind there is no period like youth. 
The generality are far from fortunate ; but the period of youth, 
even to the least so, offers moments of considerable happiness, 
for they are not only disposed, but able to enjoy most things 
within their reach. With what trifles at that period are we content ; 
the things from which in after-life we should turn away in disdain 
please us then, for we are in the midst of a golden cloud, and 
everything seems decked with a golden hue. Never during any 
portion of my life did time flow on more speedily than during the 
two or three years immediately succeeding the period to which we 
arrived in the preceding chapter. Since then it has flagged often 
enough ; sometimes it has seemed to stand entirely still ; and the 

(ii3) 8 


LA VENGRO. 


114 


1819.] 


reader may easily judge how it fares at the present, from the 
circumstance of my taking pen in hand, and endeavouring to 
write down the passages of my life — a last resource with most 
people. But at the period to which I allude I was just, as I may 
say, entering upon life ; I had adopted a profession, and — to keep 
up my character, simultaneously with that profession — the study 
of a new language ; I speedily became a proficient in the one, but 
ever remained a novice in the other : a novice in the law, but a 
perfect master in the Welsh tongue. 

Yes ! very pleasant times were those, when within the womb 
of a lofty deal desk, behind which I sat for some eight hours 
every day, transcribing (when I imagined eyes were upon me) 
documents of every description in every possible hand, Blackstone 
kept company with Ab Gwilym — the polished English lawyer of 
the last century, who wrote long and prosy chapters on the rights of 
things — with a certain wild Welshman, who some four hundred years 
before that time indited immortal cowydds and odes to the wives 
of Cambrian chieftains — more particularly to one Morfydd, the 
wife of a certain hunchbacked dignitary called by the poet face- 
tiously Bwa Bach — generally terminating with the modest request 
of a little private parlance beneath the green wood bough, with no 
other witness than the eos, or nightingale, a request which, if the 
poet himself may be believed — rather a doubtful point — was 
seldom, very seldom, denied. And by what strange chance had 
Ab Gwilym and Blackstone, two personages so exceedingly 
different, been thus brought together? From what the reader 
already knows of me, he may be quite prepared to find me 
reading the former ; but what could have induced me to take up 
Blackstone, or rather the law ? 

I have ever loved to be as explicit as possible; on which 
account, perhaps, I never attained to any proficiency in the law, 
the essence of which is said to be ambiguity ; most questions may 
be answered in a few words, and this among the rest, though 
connected with the law. My parents deemed it necessary that I 
should adopt some profession, they named the law ; the law was 
as agreeable to me as any other profession within my reach, so I 
adopted the law, and the consequence was, that Blackstone, pro- 
bably for the first time, found himself in company with Ab Gwilym. 
By adopting the law I had not ceased to be Lavengro. 

So I sat behind a desk many hours in the day, ostensibly 
engaged in transcribing documents of various kinds. The scene of 
my labours was a strange old house, occupying one side of a long 
and narrow court, into which, however, the greater number of the 



Rackham’s Offices, Tuck’s Court, St. Giles’, Norwich. 

Lavengro. ] [. Facing page 1 1 4 . 



ENGLISH LA W. 


115 


1819.] 


windows looked not, but into an extensive garden, filled with 
fruit trees, in the rear of a large, handsome house, belonging to a 
highly respectable gentleman, who, moyennant un douceur con- 
siderable, had consented to instruct my father’s youngest son in 
the mysteries of glorious English law. Ah ! would that I could 
describe the good gentleman in the manner which he deserves ; 
he has long since sunk to his place in a respectable vault, in the 
aisle of a very respectable church, whilst an exceedingly respect- 
able marble slab against the neighbouring wall tells on a Sunday 
some eye wandering from its prayer-book that his dust lies below ; 
to secure such respectabilities in death, he passed a most respect- 
able life. Let no one sneer, he accomplished much ; his life was 
peaceful, so was his death. Are these trifles? I wish I could 
describe him, for I loved the man, and with reason, for he was 
ever kind to me, to whom kindness has not always been shown ; 
and he was, moreover, a choice specimen of a class which no 
longer exists — a gentleman lawyer of the old school. I would 
fain describe him, but figures with which he has nought to do 
press forward and keep him from my mind’s eye ; there they pass, 
Spaniard and Moor, Gypsy, Turk, and livid Jew. But who is 
that ? what that thick pursy man in the loose, snuff-coloured great- 
coat, with the white stockings, drab breeches, and silver buckles 
on his shoes? that man with the bull neck, and singular head, 
immense in the lower part, especially about the jaws, but tapering 
upward like a pear ; the man with the bushy brows, small grey 
eyes, replete with cat-like expression, whose grizzled hair is cut 
close, and whose ear-lobes are pierced with small golden rings ? 
Oh ! that is not my dear old master, but a widely different person- 
age. Bon jour, Monsieur Vidocq 1 expressions de ma part a 
Monsieur le Baron Taylor?- But here comes at last my veritable 
old master ! 

A more respectable-looking individual was never seen ; he 
really looked what he was, a gentleman of the law — there was 
nothing of the pettifogger about him. Somewhat under the middle 
size, and somewhat rotund in person, he was always dressed in a 
full suit of black, never worn long enough to become threadbare. 
His face was rubicund, and not without keenness; but the most 
remarkable thing about him was the crown of his head, which was 
bald, and shone like polished ivory, nothing more white, smooth, 
and lustrous. Some people have said that he wore false calves, 
probably because his black silk stockings never exhibited a 
wrinkle; they might just as well have said that he waddled, 

1 MS., “A Monsieur Peyrecourt ’ or “ Pierrecourt ”, 


la Vengro. 


116 


[1819. 


because his shoes creaked ; for these last, which were always 
without a speck, and polished as his crown, though of a different 
hue, did creak, as he walked rather slowly. I cannot say that I 
ever saw him walk fast. 

He had a handsome practice, and might have died a very 
rich man, much richer than he did, had he not been in the habit 
of giving rather expensive dinners to certain great people, who 
gave him nothing in return, except their company; I could never 
discover his reasons for doing so, as he always appeared to me a 
remarkably quiet man, by nature averse to noise and bustle ; but 
in all dispositions there are anomalies. I have already said that 
he lived in a handsome house, and I may as well here add that 
he had a very handsome wife, who both dressed and talked ex- 
ceedingly well. 

So I sat behind the deal desk, engaged in copying documents 
of various kinds ; and in the apartment in which I sat, and in the 
adjoining ones, there were others, some of whom likewise copied 
documents, while some were engaged in the yet more difficult 
task of drawing them up ; and some of these, sons of nobody, 
were paid for the work they did, whilst others, like myself, 
sons of somebody, paid for being permitted to work, which 
as our principal observed, was but reasonable, forasmuch as we 
not unfrequently utterly spoiled the greater part of the work 
intrusted to our hands. 

There was one part of the day when I generally found myself 
quite alone, I mean at the hour when the rest went home to their 
principal meal ; I, being the youngest, was left to take care of the 
premises, to answer the bell, and so forth, till relieved, which was 
seldom before the expiration of an hour and a half, when I my- 
self went home ; this period, however, was anything but disagree- 
able to me, for it was then that I did what best pleased me, and, 
leaving off copying the documents, I sometimes indulged in a fit 
of musing, my chin resting on both my hands, and my elbows 
planted on the desk ; or, opening the desk aforesaid, I would take 
out one of the books contained within it, and the book which I 
took out was almost invariably, not Blackstone, but Ab Gwilym. 

Ah, that Ab Gwilym ! I am much indebted to him, and it were 
ungrateful on my part not to devote a few lines to him and his 
songs in this my history. Start not, reader, I am not going to 
trouble you with a poetical dissertation ; no, no ! I know my duty 
too well to introduce anything of the kind ; but I, who imagine I 
know several things, and amongst others the workings of your 
mind at this moment, have an idea that you are anxious to learn 


AB GWILYM. 


1819.] 


117 


a little, a very little, more about Ab Gwilym than I have hitherto 
told you, the two or three words that I have dropped having 
awakened within you a languid kind of curiosity. I have no 
hesitation in saying that he makes one of the some half-dozen 
really great poets whose verses, in whatever language they wrote, 
exist at the present day, and are more or less known. It matters 
little how I first became acquainted with the writings of this man, 
and how the short thick volume, stuffed full with his immortal 
imaginings, first came into my hands. I was studying Welsh, 
and I fell in with Ab Gwilym by no very strange chance. But 
before I say more about Ab Gwilym, I must be permitted — I 
really must — to say a word or two about the language in which 
he wrote, that same “Sweet Welsh”. If I remember right, I 
found the language a difficult one ; in mastering it, however, I 
derived unexpected assistance from what of Irish remained in 
my head, and I soon found that they were cognate dialects, 
springing from some old tongue which itself, perhaps, had sprung 
from one much older. And here I cannot help observing 
cursorily that I every now and then, whilst studying this Welsh, 
generally supposed to be the original tongue of Britain, en- 
countered words which, according to the lexicographers, were 
venerable words, highly expressive, showing the wonderful power 
and originality of the Welsh, in which, however, they were no 
longer used in common discourse, but were relics, precious relics, 
of the first speech of Britain, perhaps of the world; with which' 
words, however, I was already well acquainted, and which I had 
picked up, not in learned books, classic books, and in tongues of 
old renown, but whilst listening to Mr. Petulengro and Tawno 
Chikno talking over their every-day affairs in the language of 
the tents ; which circumstance did not fail to give rise to deep 
reflection in those moments when, planting my elbows on the 
deal desk, I rested my chin upon my hands. But it is probable 
that I should have abandoned the pursuit of the Welsh language, 
after obtaining a very superficial acquaintance with it, had it not 
been for Ab Gwilym. 

A strange songster was that who, pretending to be captivated 
by every woman he saw, was, in reality, in love with nature 
alone — wild, beautiful, solitary nature — her mountains and cas- 
cades, her forests and streams, her birds, fishes, and wild animals. 
Go to, Ab Gwilym, with thy pseudo-amatory odes, to Morfydd, 
or this or that other lady, fair or ugly ; little didst thou care for 
any of them, Dame Nature was thy love, however thou mayest 
seek to disguise the truth. Yes, yes, send thy love-message to 


n8 


LA VENGRO. 


[1819. 


Morfydd, the fair wanton. By whom dost thou send it, I would 
know? by the salmon, forsooth, which haunts the rushing stream ! 
the glorious salmon which bounds and gambols in the flashing 
water, and whose ways and circumstances thou so well describest 
— see, there he hurries upwards through the flashing water. 
Halloo ! what a glimpse of glory — but where is Morfydd the 
while ? What, another message to the wife of Bwa Bach ? Ay, 
truly ; and by whom ? — the wind ! the swift wind, the rider of 
the world, whose course is not to be stayed; who gallops o’er the 
mountain, and, when he comes to broadest river, asks neither for 
boat nor ferry ; who has described the wind so well — his speed 
and power ? But where is Morfydd ? And now thou art awaiting 
Morfydd, the wanton, the wife of the Bwa Bach ; thou art awaiting 
her beneath the tall trees, amidst the underwood ; but she comes 
not ; no Morfydd is there. Quite right, Ab Gwilym ; what wantest 
thou with Morfydd ? But another form is nigh at hand, that of 
red Reynard, who, seated upon his chine at the mouth of his 
cave, looks very composedly at thee ; thou startest, bendest thy 
bow, thy cross-bow, intending to hit Reynard with the bolt just 
about the jaw; but the bow breaks, Reynard barks and dis- 
appears into his cave, which by thine own account reaches hell — 
and then thou ravest at the misfortune of thy bow and the non- 
appearance of Morfydd, and abusest Reynard. Go to, thou 
carest neither for thy bow nor for Morfydd, thou merely seekest 
an opportunity to speak of Reynard ; and who has described him 
like thee ? the brute with the sharp shrill cry, the black reverse of 
melody, whose face sometimes wears a smile like the devil’s in the 
Evangile. But now thou art actually with Morfydd ; yes, she has 
stolen from the dwelling of the Bwa Bach and has met thee 
beneath those rocks — she is actually with thee, Ab Gwilym ; but 
she is not long with thee, for a storm comes on, and thunder 
shatters the rocks — Morfydd flees ! Quite right, Ab Gwilym ; 
thou hadst no need of her, a better theme for song is the voice of 
the Lord — the rock shatterer — than the frail wife of the Bwa 
Bach. Go to, Ab Gwilym, thou wast a wiser and a better man 
than thou wouldst fain have had people believe. 

But enough of thee and thy songs! Those times passed 
rapidly away ; with Ab Gwilym in my hand, I was in the midst 
of enchanted ground, in which I experienced sensations akin to 
those I had felt of yore whilst spelling my way through the 
wonderful book — the delight of my childhood. I say akin, for 
perhaps only once in our lives do we experience unmixed wonder 
and delight; and these I had already known. 


THE POET PARKINSON. 


Ir 9 


1819.] 


[It was my own fault if I did not acquire considerable know- 
ledge of life and character, in the place to which my kind parents 
had sent me. I performed the tasks that were allotted to me in 
the profession I had embraced, if not very scrupulously, yet, 
perhaps as well as could be expected in one who was occupied 
by many and busy thoughts of his own. I copied what was set 
before me, and admitted those who knocked at the door of the 
sanctuary of law and conveyancing, performing the latter office 
indeed from choice, long after it had ceased to be part of my 
duty by the arrival of another, and of course a junior, pupil. 

I scarcely know what induced me to take pleasure in this 
task, yet there can be no doubt that I did take pleasure in it, 
otherwise I should scarcely have performed it so readily. It has 
been said, I believe, that whatever we do con amore , we are sure 
to do well, and I dare say that, as a general rule, this may 
hold good. One thing is certain, that with whatever satisfaction 
to myself I performed the task, I was not equally fortunate in 
pleasing my employer, who complained of my want of discrimina- 
tion and yet, strange as it may seem, this last is a quality upon 
which I not only particularly valued myself at the time, but still 
do in a high degree. I made a point never to admit any persons 
without subjecting them to the rigorous investigation of the pair 
of eyes that providence had been pleased to place in my head. 
To those who pleased me not, I was little better than a Cerberus 
whom it was very difficult to pass ; whilst to others, I was all 
easiness and condescension, ushering them straight to the sanctum 
sanctorum, in which, behind a desk covered with letters and 
papers, stood — for he never sat down to his desk — the respectable 
individual whose lawful commands to obey and whose secrets to 
keep I had pledged myself by certain articles duly stamped and 
signed. 

“This will never do,” said he to me one day; “you will 
make me a bankrupt, unless you alter your conduct. There is 
scarcely one of my respectable clients but complains of your 
incivility. I speak to you, my poor boy, as much on your own 
account as on mine. I quite tremble for you. Are you aware of 
the solecisms you commit? Only yesterday you turned Sir 
Edward from the door, and immediately after you admitted 
Parkinson the poet ! What an insult to a gentleman to be turned 
from the door, and a strolling vagabond to be admitted before 
his eyes ! ” 

“ I can’t help it,” said I ; “ I used my best powers of discrim- 
ination ; I looked both full in the fac$ ? and the one struck me as 


120 


LA VENGRO. 


[ 1819 - 


being an honest man, whilst the other had the very look of a 
slave driver.” 

“ In the face ? Bless me ! But you looked at their dress, I 
suppose ? You looked at Sir Edward’s dress ? ” 

“No,” said I, “ I merely looked at his countenance.” 

“Which you thought looked like that of a slave driver. Well, 
he’s been in the Indies, where he made his fortune ; so, perhaps, 
you may not be so far out. However, be more cautious in future ; 

look less at people’s countenances and more at their 1 dare 

say you understand me : admit every decent person, and if you 
turn away anybody, pray let it be the poet Parkinson . . .” 

Keeping the admonition of my principal in view, I admitted 
without word or comment, provided the possessors had a decent 
coat to their backs, all kinds of countenances — honest counten- 
ances, dishonest countenances, and those which were neither. 
Amongst all these, some of which belonged to naval and military 
officers, notaries public, magistrates, bailiffs, and young ecclesi- 
astics — the latter with spotless neck-cloths and close-shaven chins 
— there were three countenances which particularly pleased me : 
the first being that of an ancient earl, who wore a pig-tail, and 
the back of whose coat was white with powder; the second, 
that of a yeoman ninety years old and worth ,£90,000, who, 
dressed in an entire suit of whitish corduroy, sometimes slowly 
trotted up the court on a tall heavy steed, which seemed by no 
means unused to the plough. The third was that of the poet 
Parkinson. 

I arn not quite sure that I remember the business which 
brought this last individual so frequently to our office, for he paid 
us a great many visits. 

I am inclined to believe, however, that he generally carried 
in his pocket a bundle of printed poems of his own composition, 
on the sale of which he principally depended for his subsistence. 
He was a man of a singular, though to me by no means unpleasant 
countenance ; he wore an old hat and a snuff-coloured greatcoat, 
and invariably carried in his hand a stout cudgel like a man much 
in the habit of walking, which he probably was, from the circum- 
stance of his being generally covered with dust in summer, and in 
winter splashed with mud from head to foot. 

“You cannot see the principal to day, Mr. Parkinson,” said I 
to him once, as unannounced he entered the room where I sat 
alone ; “ he is gone out and will not return for some time.” 

“Well, that’s unfortunate, for I want to consult him on some 
particular business.” 


i8ig.] 


THE FIRST CASE. 


121 


“ What business is it ? Perhaps I can be of service to you. 
Does it relate to the common law ? ” 

“ I suppose so, for I am told it is a common assault ; but I 
had better wait till the gentleman comes home. You are rather 
too young; and besides I have other matters to consult him 
about ; I have two or three papers in my pocket . . 

“ You cannot see him to-day,” said I ; “ but you were talking 
of an assault. Has any one been beating you?” 

“Not exactly ; I got into a bit of a ruffle, and am threatened 
with an action.” 

“ Oh ! so you have been beating somebody.” 

“ And if I did, how could I help it ? I’ll tell you how it hap- 
pened. I have a gift of making verses, as perhaps you know — 
in fact, everybody knows. When I had sowed my little trifle of 
corn in the bit of ground that my father left me, having nothing 
better to do, I sat down and wrote a set of lines to my lord, in 
which I told him what a fine old gentleman he was. Then I 
took my stick and walked off to , where, after a little diffi- 

culty, I saw my lord, and read the verses to him which I had 
made, offering to print them if he thought proper. Well, he 
was mightily pleased with them, and said they were too good to 
be printed, and begged that I would do no such thing, which I 
promised him I would not, and left him, not before, however, 
he had given me a King James’ guinea, which they say is worth 
two of King George’s. Well, I made my bow and went to the 
village, and in going past the ale-house I thought I would just 
step in, which I did. The house was full of people, chiefly 
farmers, and when they saw me they asked me to sit down and 
take a glass with them, which I did, and being called upon for 
a song I sang one, and then began talking about myself and how 
much my lord thought of me, and I repeated the lines which I 
had written to him, and showed them the James’ guinea he had 
given me. You should have seen the faces they cast upon me 
at the sight of the gold ; they couldn’t stand it, for it was a con- 
firmation to their envious hearts of all I had told them. Presently 
one called me a boasting fool, and getting up said that my lord 
was a yet greater fool for listening to me, and then added that 
the lines I had been reading were not of my own making. ‘ No, 
you dog, ’ said he, ‘ they are not of your own making ; you got 
somebody to make them for you.’ Now, I do not mind being 
called a boaster, nor a dog either, but when he told me that my 
verses were not my own, I couldn’t contain myself, so I told him 
he lied, whereupon he flung a glass of liquor in my face, and I 
knocked him down.” 


122 


LA VENGRO. 


[1819. 


“Mr. Parkinson,” said I, “ are you much in the habit of 
writing verses to great people ? ” 

“ Great and small. I consider nothing too high or too 
low. I have written verses upon the king, and upon a prize ox ; 
for the first I got nothing, but the owner of the ox at Christmas 
sent me the better part of the chine.” 

“ In fact, you write on all kinds of subjects.” 

“ And I carry them to the people whom I think they’ll please.” 

“ And what subjects please best ? ” 

“ Animals ; my work chiefly lies in the country, and people 
in the country prefer their animals to anything else.” 

“ Have you ever written on amatory subjects ? ” 

“ When young people are about to be married, I sometimes 
write in that style ; but it doesn’t take. People think, perhaps, 
that I am jesting at them, but no one thinks I am jesting at his 
horse or his ox when I speak w r ell of them. There was an old 
lady w T ho had a peacock ; I sent her some lines upon the bird ; 
she never forgot it, and when she died she left me the bird 
stuffed and ten pounds.” 

“ Mr. Parkinson, you put me very much in mind of the Welsh 
bards.” 

“The Welsh what?” 

“ Bards. Did you never hear of them ? ” 

“ Can’t say that I ever did.” 

“ You do not understand Welsh ? ” 

“ I do not.” 

“ Well, provided you did, I should be strongly disposed to 
imagine that you imitated the Welsh bards.” 

“I imitate no one,” said Mr. Parkinson; “though if you 
mean by the Welsh bards the singing bards of the country, it is 
possible we may resemble one another ; only I would scorn to 
imitate anybody, even a bard.” 

“ I was not speaking of birds, but bards — Welsh poets — and 
it is surprising how much the turn of your genius coincides with 
theirs. Why, the subjects of hundreds of their compositions are 
the very subjects which you appear to delight in, and are the 
most profitable to you — beeves, horses, hawks — which they de- 
scribed to their owners in colours the most glowing and natural, 
and then begged them as presents. I have even seen in Welsh 
an ode to a peacock.” 

“I can’t help it,” said Parkinson, “ and I tell you again that 
I imitate nobody.” 

“ Do you travel much about ? ” 


JUDGE AND JURY. 


123 


1819.] 


“ Aye, aye. As soon as I have got my seed into the ground, 
or my crop into my barn, I lock up my home and set out from 
house to house and village to village, and many is the time I sit 
down beneath the hedges and take out my pen and inkhorn. 
It is owing to that, I suppose, that I have been called the flying 
poet.” . . . [Wanting.] 

“ It appears to me, young man,” said Parkinson, “ that you 
are making game of me.” 

“ I should as much scorn to make game of any one, as you 
would scorn to imitate any one, Mr. Parkinson.” 

“ Well, so much the better for us both. But we’ll now talk 
of my affair. Are you man enough to give me an opinion upon 
it ? ” 

“ Quite so,” said I, “ Mr. Parkinson. I understand the case 
clearly, and I unhesitatingly assert that any action for battery 
brought against you would be flung out of court, and the bringer 
of said action be obliged to pay the costs, the original assault 
having been perpetrated by himself when he flung the liquor in 
your face ; and to set your mind perfectly at ease I will read to 
you what Lord Chief Justice Blackstone says upon the subject.” 

“ Thank you,” said Parkinson, after I had read him an entire 
chapter on the rights of persons, expounding as I went along. 
“ I see you understand the subject, and are a respectable young 
man — which I rather doubted at first from your countenance, 
which shows the folly of taking against a person for the cast of 
his face or the glance of his eye. Now, I’ll maintain that you 
are a respectable young man, whoever says to the contrary ; and 
that some day or other you will be an honour to your profession 
and a credit to your friends. I like chapter and verse when I 
ask a question, and you have given me both ; you shall never 
want my good word ; meanwhile, if there is anything that I can 
oblige you in •” 

“ There is, Mr. Parkinson, there is.” 

“ Well, what is it ? ” 

“ It has just occurred to me that you could give me a hint 
or two at versification. I have just commenced, but I find it no 
easy matter, the rhymes are particularly perplexing.” 

“ Are you quite serious ? ” 

“ Quite so ; and to convince you, here is an ode of Ab 
Gwilym which I am translating, but I can get no farther than 
the first verse.” 

“ Why, that was just my case when I first began,” said 
Parkinson. 


124 


LA VENGRO. 


[1819. 


“ I think I have been tolerably successful in the first verse, 
and that I have not only gotten the sense of the author, but that 
alliteration, which, as you may perhaps be aware, is one of the 
most peculiar features of Welsh poetry. In the ode to which I 
allude the poet complains of the barbarity of his mistress, Mor- 
fydd, and what an unthankful task it is to be the poet of a beauty 
so proud and disdainful, which sentiment I have partly rendered 
thus : — 

Mine is a task by no means merry , 

in which you observe that the first word of the line and the last 
two commence with the same letter, according to the principle 
of Welsh prosody. But now cometh the difficulty. What is the 
rhyme for merry ? ” 

“ Londonderry ,” said the poet without hesitation, “ as you 
will see by the poem which I addressed to Mr. C., the celebrated 
Whig agriculturist, on its being reported that the king was about 
to pay him a visit : — 

But if in our town he would wish to be merry 
Pray don't let him bring with him Lord Londonderry , 

which two lines procured me the best friend I ever had in my 
life.” 

“ They are certainly fine lines,” I observed, “ and I am not 
at all surprised that the agriculturist was pleased with them ; but 
I am afraid that I cannot turn to much account the hint which 
they convey. How can I possibly introduce Londonderry into 
my second line ? ” 

“ I see no difficulty,” said Parkinson ; “just add : — 

I sing proud Mary of Londonderry 

to your first line, and I do not see what objection could be made 
to the couplet, as they call it.” 

“ No farther,” said I, “ than that she was not of Londonderry, 
which was not even built at the time she lived.” 

“Well, have your own way,” said Parkinson; “I see that 
you have not had the benefit of a classical education.” 

“ What makes you think so ? ” 

“ Why, you never seem to have heard of poetical license.” 

“ I see,” said I, “ that I must give up alliteration. Allitera- 
tion and rhyme together will, I am afraid, be too much for me. 
Perhaps the couplet had best stand thus : — 

I long have had a duty hard, 
l long have been fair Morfydd's bard. 


EXIT POET A. 


125 


1819.] 


“ That won’t do,” said Parkinson. 

“ Why not?” 

“ Because ’tis not English. Bard, indeed ! I tell you what, 
young man, you have no talent for poetry; if you had, you 
would not want my help. No, no; cleave to your own pro- 
fession and you will be an honour to it, but leave poetry to me. 
I counsel you as a friend. Good-morning to you.”] 


CHAPTER XX. 


“ I am afraid that I have not acted very wisely in putting this boy 
of ours to the law,” said my father to my mother, as they sat 
together one summer evening in their little garden, beneath the 
shade of some tall poplars. 

Yes, there sat my father in the garden chair which leaned 
against the wall of his quiet home, the haven in which he had 
sought rest, and, praise be to God, found it, after many a year of 
poorly requited toil ; there he sat, with locks of silver gray which 
set off so nobly his fine bold but benevolent face, his faithful 
consort at his side, and his trusty dog at his feet — an eccentric 
animal of the genuine regimental breed, who, born amongst red- 
coats, had not yet become reconciled to those of any other hue, 
barking and tearing at them when they drew near the door, but 
testifying his fond reminiscence of the former by hospitable 
waggings of the tail whenever a uniform made its appearance — at 
present a very unfrequent occurrence. 

“I am afraid I have not done right in putting him to the 
law,” said my father, resting his chin upon his gold-headed bamboo 
cane. 

“ Why, what makes you think so?” said my mother. 

“ I have been taking my usual evening walk up the road, with 
the animal here,” said my father; “and, as I walked along, I 

overtook the boy’s master, Mr. S . 1 We shook hands, and 

after walking a little way farther, we turned back together, talking 
about this and that ; the state of the country, the weather, and 
the dog, which he greatly admired ; for he is a good-natured man, 
and has a good word for everybody, though the dog all but bit 
him when he attempted to coax his head ; after the dog, we began 
talking about the boy ; it was myself who introduced that subject : 
I thought it was a good opportunity to learn how he was getting 
on, so I asked what he thought of my son ; he hesitated at first, 
seeming scarcely to know what to say ; at length he came out 

1 MS., “ Simpson 
(126) 


KING'S COURT. 


127 


1820.] 


with ‘ Oh, a very extraordinary youth, a most remarkable youth 
indeed, captain ! ’ ‘ Indeed,’ said I, ‘ I am glad to hear it, but I 

hope you find him steady ? ’ ‘ Steady, steady,’ said he, ‘ why, yes, 

he’s steady, I cannot say that he is not steady.’ ‘ Come, come,’ 
said I, beginning to be rather uneasy, ‘ I see plainly that you are 
not altogether satisfied with him ; I was afraid you would not be, 
for, though he is my own son, I am anything but blind to his 
imperfections : but do tell me what particular fault you have to 
find with him ; and I will do my best to make him alter his 
conduct.’ ‘No fault to find with him, captain, I assure you, no 
fault whatever ; the youth is a remarkable youth, an extraordinary 

youth, only’ — As I told you before, Mr. S is the best-natured 

man in the world, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that 
I could get him to say a single word to the disadvantage of the 
boy, for whom he seems to entertain a very great regard. At last 
I forced the truth from him, and grieved I was to hear it ; though 
I must confess I was somew r hat prepared for it. It appears that 
the lad has a total want of discrimination.” 

“ I don’t understand you,” said my mother. 

“You can understand nothing that would seem for a moment 
to impugn the conduct of that child. I am not, however, so 
blind ; want of discrimination was the word, and it both sounds 
well, and is expressive. It appears that, since he has been placed 
where he is, he has been guilty of the grossest blunders ; only the 
other day, Mr. S told me, as he was engaged in close con- 

versation with one of his principal clients, the boy came to tell 
him that a person wanted particularly to speak with him ; and, on 
going out, he found a lamentable figure with one eye, who came 
to ask for charity ; whom, nevertheless, the lad had ushered into 
a private room, and installed in an arm-chair, like a justice of the 
peace, instead of telling him to go about his business — now what 
did that show, but a total want of discrimination ? ” 

“ I wish we may never have anything worse to reproach him 
with,” said my mother. 

“ I don’t know what worse we could reproach him with,” said 
my father : “ I mean of course as far as his profession is con- 
cerned : discrimination is the very key-stone ; if he treated all 
people alike, he would soon become a beggar himself ; there are 
grades in society as well as in the army ; and according to those 
grades we should fashion our behaviour, else there would instantly 
be an end of all order and discipline. I am afraid that the child 
is too condescending to his inferiors, whilst to his superiors he is 
apt to be unbending enough ; I don’t believe that would do in 


128 


LA VENGRO. 


[1820 


the world ; I am sure it would not in the army. He told me 
another anecdote with respect to his behaviour, which shocked 
me more than the other had done. It appears that his wife, who, 
by-the-bye, is a very fine woman, and highly fashionable, gave 
him permission to ask the boy to tea one evening, for she is 
herself rather partial to the lad ; there had been a great dinner 
party there that day, and there were a great many fashionable 
people, so the boy went and behaved very well and modestly for 
some time, and was rather noticed, till, unluckily, a very great 
gentleman, an archdeacon I think, put some questions to him, 
and, finding that he understood the languages, began talking to 
him about the classics. What do you think ? the boy had the 
impertinence to say that the classics were much overvalued, and 
amongst other things that some horrid fellow or other, some. 
Welshman I think (thank God it was not an Irishman), was a 
better poet than Ovid ; the company were of course horrified ; 
the archdeacon, who is seventy years of age, and has ^7000 a 

year, took snuff and turned away. Mrs. S turned up her 

eyes, Mr. S , however, told me with his usual good-nature 

(I suppose to spare my feelings) that he rather enjoyed the thing, 
and thought it a capital joke.” 

“ I think so too,” said my mother. 

“ I do not,” said my father ; “ that a boy of his years should 
entertain an opinion of his own — I mean one which militates 
against all established authority — is astounding ; as well might a 
raw recruit pretend to offer an unfavourable opinion on the manual 
and platoon exercise ; the idea is preposterous ; the lad is too 
independent by half. I never yet knew one of an independent 
spirit get on in the army ; the secret of success in the army is the 
spirit of subordination.” 

“Which is a poor spirit after all,” said my mother; “ but the 
child is not in the army.” 

“ And it is well for him that he is not,” said my father; “but 
you do not talk wisely, the world is a field of battle, and he who 
leaves the ranks, what can he expect but to be cut down ? I call 
his present behaviour leaving the ranks, and going vapouring 
about without orders ; his only chance lies in falling in again as 
quick as possible ; does he think he can carry the day by himself? 
an opinion of his own at these years ! I confess I am exceedingly 
uneasy about the lad.” 

[“ I am not,” said my mother ; “ I have no doubt that Provid- 
ence will take care of him.” 

“ I repeat that I am exceedingly uneasy,” said my father ; “ I 


THE “ WAKE OF FREY A 


129 


1820.] 


can’t help being so, and would give my largest piece of coin to 
know what kind of part he will play in life.” 

“Such curiosity is blamable,” said my mother, “highly so. 
Let us leave these things to Providence, and hope for the best ; 
but to wish to pry into the future, which is hidden from us, and 
wisely too, is mighty wicked. Tempt not Providence. I early 
contracted a dread of that sin. When I was only a child, some- 
thing occurred connected with diving into the future, which had, 
I hope, a salutary effect on my subsequent conduct. The fright 
which I got then, I shall never forget. But it is getting dark, and 
we had better go into the house.” 

“We are well enough here,” said my father; “go on with 
your discourse. You were speaking of tempting Providence, and 
of having been frightened.” 

“ It was a long time ago,” said my mother, “ when I was quite 
a child, and I was only a humble assistant in the affair. Your 
wish to dive into the future brought it to my recollection. It was, 
perhaps, only a foolish affair after all, and I would rather not 
talk about it, especially as it is growing dark. We had better 
go in.” 

“ A tale with any terror in it is all the better for being told in 
the dark hour,” said my father; “you are not afraid, I hope.” 

“ Afraid, indeed ! Of what should I be afraid ? And yet I 
know not how it is, I feel a chill, as if something was casting a 
cold shadow upon me. By-the-bye, I have often heard that child 
talk of an indescribable fear which sometimes attacks him and 
which he calls the shadow. I wonder if it at all resembles what I 
am feeling now ! ” 

“ Never mind the child or his shadow,” said my father, “ but 
let us hear the story.” 

“ I have no objection to tell it ; but perhaps after all it is mere 
nonsense and will only make you laugh.” 

“Why, then, so much the better; it will perhaps drive from 
my head what Mr. Simpson told me, which I certainly considered 
to be no laughing matter, though you and he did. I would hear 
the story by all means.” 

“ Well, so you shall. ’Tis said, however, that a superstition 
lies at the bottom of it, as old as the Danes. So, at least, says 
the child, who by some means or other has of late become 
acquainted with their language. He says that of old they wor- 
shipped a god whose name was Frey, and that this Frey had a 
wife.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said my father, “ and who told you this?” 

9 


LA VENGRO. 


130 


[i520 


“Why, the child,” said my mother hesitatingly; “ it was he 
that told me.” 

“I am afraid that it will indeed prove a foolish story,” said 
my father; “the child is mixed up with it already.” 

“ He is not mixed up with it,” said my mother. “What I 
am about to relate occurred many a long year before he was born. 
But he is fond of hearing odd tales ; and some time ago when he 
was poorly, I told him this one amongst others, and it was then 
he made the observation that it is a relic of the worship of the 
Danes. Truly the child talked both sensibly and learnedly. The 
Danes, he said, were once a mighty people, and were masters of 
the land where we at present are ; that they had gods of their 
own, strange and wild like themselves, and that it was their god 
Frey who gave his name to what we call Friday.” 

“ All this may be true,” said my father, “ but I should never 
think of quoting the child as an authority.” 

“You must not be too hard on him,” said my mother. “So 
this Frey had a wife whose name was Freya, and the child says 
that the old pagans considered them as the gods of love and 
marriage, and worshipped them as such ; and that all young 
damsels were in the habit of addressing themselves to Freya in 
their love adventures, and of requesting her assistance. He told 
me, and he quite frightened me when he said it, that a certain 
night ceremony, in which I took part in my early youth, and 
which is the affair to which I have alluded, was in every point 
heathenish, being neither more nor less than an invocation to this 
Freya, the wife of the old pagan god.” 

“And what ceremony might it be?” demanded my father. 
“ It is getting something dark,” he added, glancing around. 

“It is so,” said my mother; “but these tales, you know, are 
best suited to the dark hour. The ceremony was rather a 
singular one; the child, however, explains it rationally enough. 
He says that this Freya was not only a very comely woman, but 
also particularly neat in her person, and that she invariably went 
dressed in snow-white linen.” 

“ And how came the child to know all this ? ” demanded my 
father. 

“Oh, that’s his affair. I am merely repeating what he tells 
me. He reads strange books and converses with strange people. 
What he says, however, upon this matter, seems sensible enough. 
This Freya was fond of snow-white linen.” 

“ And what has that to do with the story ? ” 

“ Everything. I have told you that the young maidens were 


THE “ WAKE OF FREY A ” 


1820.] 


131 


in the habit of praying to her and requesting her favour and 
assistance in their love adventures, which it seems she readily 
granted to those whom she took any interest in. Now the 
readiest way to secure this interest and to procure her assistance 
in any matter of the heart, was to flatter her on the point where 
she was the most sensible. Whence the offering.” 

“ And what was the offering ? ” 

“ It was once a common belief that the young maiden who 
should wash her linen white in pure running water and should 
‘watch’ it whilst drying before a fire from eleven to twelve at 
night, would, at the stroke of midnight, see the face of the man 
appear before her who was destined to be her husband, and the 
child says that this was the * Wake of Frey a 

“ I have heard of it before,” said my father, “ but under 
another name. So you were engaged in one of these watchings.” 

“It was no fault of mine,” said my mother; “for, as I told 
you, I was very young, scarcely ten years of age; but I had a 
sister considerably older than myself, a nice girl, but somewhat 
giddy and rather unsettled. Perhaps, poor thing, she had some 
cause ; for a young man to whom she had been betrothed, had 
died suddenly, which was of course a terrible disappointment to 
her. Well, it is at such times that strange ideas, temptations 
perhaps, come into our head. To be brief, she had a mighty 
desire to know whether she was doomed to be married or not. I 
remember that at that time there were many odd beliefs and 
superstitions which have since then died away ; for those times 
were not like these; there were highwaymen in the land, and 
people during the winter evenings used to sit round the fire and 
tell wonderful tales of those wild men and their horses ; and these 
tales they would blend with ghost stories and the like. My sister 
was acquainted with all the tales and superstitions afloat and believed 
in them. So she determined upon the wake, the night-watch of 
Freya, as the child calls it. But with all her curiosity she was a 
timid creature, and was afraid to perform the ceremony alone. 
So she told me of her plan, and begged me to stand by her. 
Now, though I was a child, I had a spirit of my own and likewise 
a curiosity ; and though I had other sisters, I loved her best of all 
of them, so I promised her that I would stand by her. Then we 
made our preparations. The first thing we did was to walk over 
to the town, which was about three miles distant — the pretty 
little rural town which you and the child admire so much, and in 
the neighbourhood of which I was born — to purchase the article 
we were in need of. After a considerable search we found such 


132 


LA VENGRO. 


[1820. 


an one as we thought would suit. It was of the best Holland, 
and I remember that it cost us all the little pocket money we 
could muster. This we brought home ; and that same night my 
sister put it on and wore it for that once only. We had washed 
it in a brook on the other side of the moor. I remember the 
spot well ; it was in a little pool beneath an old hollow oak. The 
next night we entered on the ceremony itself. 

“ It happened to be Saturday, which was lucky for us, as my 
father that night would be at the town, whither he went every 
Saturday to sell grain ; for he farmed his own little estate, as you 
know.” 

“ I remember him well,” said my father; “ he preferred ale to 
wine.” 

“ My father was of the old race,” said my mother, “ and lived 
in the days of the highwaymen and their horses, when ‘ ale was 
ale,’ as he used to say, and ‘ was good for man and beast \ We 
knew that on the night in question he would not be home till very 
late ; so we offered to sit up for him in lieu of the servant, who was 
glad enough in such weather, and after a hard day’s work, to escape 
to her bed. My mother was indisposed and had retired to rest 
early. Well do I remember that night ; it was the beginning ot 
December, and the weather for some time past had been piercingly 
cold. The wind howled through the leafless boughs, and there was 
every appearance of an early and severe winter, as indeed befel. 
Long before eleven o’clock all was hushed and quiet within the 
house, and indeed without (nothing was heard), except the cold 
wind which howled mournfully in gusts. The house was an old 
farm-house, and we sat in the large kitchen with its stone floor, 
awaiting the first stroke of the eleventh hour. It struck at last, 
and then all pale and trembling we hung the garment to dry 
before the fire which we had piled up with wood, and set the 
door ajar, for that was an essential point. The door was lofty 
and opened upon the farmyard, through which there was a kind 
of thoroughfare, very seldom used, it is true, and at each end of it 
there was a gate by which wayfarers occasionally passed to shorten 
the way. There we sat without speaking a word, shivering with 
cold and fear, listening to the clock which went slowly, tick, 
tick, and occasionally starting as the door creaked on its hinges, 
or a half-burnt billet fell upon the hearth. My sister was ghastly 
white, as white as the garment which was drying before the fire. 
And now half an hour had elapsed and it was time to turn. . . . 
This we did, I and my sister, without saying a word, and then we 
again sank on our chairs on either side of the fire. I was tired, 


1 820.] 


THE 11 WAKE OF FREY A ”. 


133 


and as the clock went tick-a-tick, I began to feel myself dozing. 
I did doze, I believe. All of a sudden I sprang up. The clock 
was striking one, two, but ere it could give the third chime, 
mercy upon us ! we heard the gate slam to with a tremendous 
noise. . . .” 

“ Well, and what happened then ? ” 

“ Happened ! before I could recover myself, my sister had 
sprung to the door and both locked and bolted it. The next 
moment she was in convulsions. I scarcely knew what happened ; 
and yet it appeared to me for a moment that something pressed 
against the door with a low moaning sound. Whether it was the 
wind or not, I can’t say. I shall never forget that night. About 
two hours later, my father came home. He had been set upon 
by a highwayman whom he beat off.” 

“And what was the result ? ” 

“ The result ? why, my sister was ill for many weeks. Poor 
thing, she never throve, married poorly, flung herself away.” 

“ I don’t see much in the story,” said my father; “I should 
have laughed at it, only there is one thing I don’t like.” 

“ What is that?” 

“Why, the explanation of that strange child. It seems so 
odd that he should be able to interpret it. The idea came this 
moment into my head. I daresay it’s all nonsense, but, but ...” 

“ Oh, I daresay it’s nonsense. Let us go in.” 

“ If, after all, it should have been the worship of a demon ! 
Your sister was punished, you say — she never throve ; now how 
do we know that you may not be punished too ? That child with 
his confusion of tongues ” 

“ I really think you are too hard upon him. After all, though 
not, perhaps, all you could wish, he is not a bad child ; he is 
always ready to read the Bible. Let us go in ; he is in the room 
above us ; at least he was two hours ago. I left him there bend- 
ing over his books ; I wonder what he has been doing all this 
time. Let us go in, and he shall read to us.”] 

“I am getting old,” said my father; “and I love to hear the 
Bible read to me, for my own sight is something dim ; yet I do 
not wish the child to read to me this night, I cannot so soon 
forget what I have heard ; but I hear my eldest son’s voice, he is 
now entering the gate ; he shall read the Bible to us this night. 
What say you ? ” 


CHAPTER XXL 


The eldest son ! The regard and affection which my father 
entertained for his first-born were natural enough, and appeared 
to none more so than myself, who cherished the same feelings 
towards him. What he was as a boy the reader already knows, 
for the reader has seen him as a boy ; fain would I describe him 
at the time of which I am now speaking, when he had attained the 
verge of manhood, but the pen fails me, and I attempt not the 
task ; and yet it ought to be an easy one, for how frequently does 
his form visit my mind’s eye in slumber and in wakefulness, in 
the light of day, and in the night watches ; but last night I saw 
him in his beauty and his strength ; he was about to speak, and 
my ear was on the stretch, when at once I awoke, and there was 
I alone, and the night storm was howling amidst the branches of 
the pines which surround my lonely dwelling: “Listen to the 
moaning of the pine, at whose root thy hut is fastened,” — a 
saying that, of wild Finland, in which there is wisdom ; I listened, 
and thought of life and death. ... Of all human beings that I 
have ever known, that elder brother was the most frank and 
generous, ay, and the quickest and readiest, and the best adapted 
to do a great thing needful at the critical time, when the delay of 
a moment would be fatal. I have known him dash from a steep 
bank into a stream in his full dress, and pull out a man who was 
drowning ; yet there were twenty others bathing in the water, who 
might have saved him by putting out a hand, without inconveni- 
ence to themselves, which, however, they did not do, but stared 
with stupid surprise at the drowning one’s struggles. Yes, whilst 
some shouted from the bank to those in the water to save the 
drowning one, and those in the water did nothing, my brother 
neither shouted nor stood still, but dashed from the bank and did 
the one thing needful, which, under such circumstances, not one 
man in a million would have done. Now, who can wonder that 
a brave old man should love a son like this, and prefer him to 
any other ? 

“ My boy, my own boy, you are the very image of myself the 
day I took off my coat in the park to fight Big Ben,” said my 

( 1 34) 


“ THE ELDEST SON: 


*35 


1821.] 


father, on meeting his son wet and dripping, immediately after his 
bold feat. And who cannot excuse the honest pride of the old man 
— the stout old man ? 

Ay, old man, that son was worthy of thee, and thou wast 
worthy of such a son ; a noble specimen wast thou of those strong 
single-minded Englishmen, who, without making a parade either 
of religion or loyalty, feared God and honoured their king, and 
were not particularly friendly to the French, whose vaunting polls 
they occasionally broke, as at Minden and Malplaquet, to the 
confusion vast of the eternal foes of the English land. I, who 
was so little like thee that thou understoodst me not, and in whom 
with justice thou didst feel so little pride, had yet perception 
enough to see all thy worth, and to feel it an honour to be able 
to call myself thy son ; and if at some no distant time, when the 
foreign enemy ventures to insult our shore, I be permitted to 
break some vaunting poll, it will be a triumph to me to think that, 
if thou hadst lived, thou wouldst have hailed the deed, and mightest 
yet discover some distant semblance to thyself, the day when thou 
didst all but vanquish the mighty Brain. 

I have already spoken of my brother’s taste for painting, and 
the progress he had made in that beautiful art. It is probable 
that, if circumstances had not eventually diverted his mind from 
the pursuit, he would have attained excellence, and left behind 
him some enduring monument of his powers, for he had an 
imagination to conceive, and that yet rarer endowment, a hand 
capable of giving life, body, and reality to the conceptions of his 
mind ; perhaps he wanted one thing, the want of which is but too 
often fatal to the sons of genius, and without which genius is little 
more than a splendid toy in the hands of the possessor — persever- 
ance, dogged perseverance, in his proper calling ; otherwise, though 
the grave had closed over him, he might still be living in the 
admiration of his fellow-creatures. O ye gifted ones, follow your 
calling, for, however various your talents may be, ye can have 
but one calling capable of leading ye to eminence and renown ; 
follow resolutely the one straight path before you, it is that of 
your good angel, let neither obstacles nor temptations induce ye 
to leave it ; bound along if you can ; if not on hands and knees 
follow it, perish in it, if needful ; but ye need not fear that ; no 
one ever yet died in the true path of his calling before he had 
attained the pinnacle. Turn into other paths, and for a momentary 
advantage or gratification ye have sold your inheritance, your 
immortality. Ye will never be heard of after death. 

“ My father has given me a hundred and fifty pounds,” said 


136 


LA VENGRO. 


[1821. 


my brother to me one morning, “ and something which is better — 
his blessing. I am going to leave you.” 

“ Where are you going ? ” 

“ Where ? to the great city ; to London, to be sure.’* 

“ I should like to go with you.” 

“ Pooh,” said my brother, “ what should you do there?” But 
don’t be discouraged, I daresay a time will come when you too will 
go to London.” 

And, sure enough, so it did, and all but too soon. 

“ And what do you purpose doing there ? ” I demanded. 

“ Oh, I go to improve myself in art, to place myself under 
some master of high name, at least I hope to do so eventually. 

I have, however, a plan in my head, which I should wish first to 
execute ; indeed, I do not think I can rest till I have done so ; 
every one talks so much about Italy, and the wondrous artists 
which it has produced, and the wondrous pictures which are to be 
found there ; now I wish to see Italy, or rather Rome, the great 
city, for I am told that in a certain room there is contained the 
grand miracle of art.” 

“ And what do you call it ? ” 

“The Transfiguration, painted by one Rafael, and it is said to 
be the greatest work of the greatest painter which the world has 
ever known. I suppose it is because everybody says so, that I 
have such a strange desire to see it. I have already made myself 
well acquainted with its locality, and think that I could almost 
find my way to it blindfold. When I have crossed the Tiber, 
which, as you are aware, runs through Rome, I must presently 
turn to the right, up a rather shabby street, which communicates 
with a large square, the farther end of which is entirely occupied 
by the front of an immense church, with a dome, which ascends 
almost to the clouds, and this church they call St. Peter’s.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said I, “ I have read about that in Keysler’s Travels .” 

“ Before the church, in the square, are two fountains, one on 
either side, casting up water in showers ; between them, in the 
midst, is an obelisk, brought from Egypt, and covered with 
mysterious writing; on your right rises an edifice, not beautiful 
nor grand, but huge and bulky, where lives a strange kind of 
priest whom men call the Pope, a very horrible old individual, 
who would fain keep Christ in leading-strings, calls the Virgin 
Mary the Queen of Heaven, and himself God’s Lieutenant-General 
upon earth.’’ 

“Ay, ay,” said I, “I have read of him in Fox’s Book of 
Martyrs .” 


i8ai.] 


OLD CROME: 


*37 


“ Well, I do not go straight forward up the flight of steps 
conducting into the church, but I turn to the right, and, passing 
under the piazza, find myself in a court of the huge bulky house ; 
and then ascend various staircases, and pass along various corridors 
and galleries, all of which I could describe to you, though I have 
never seen them ; at last a door is unlocked, and we enter a room 
rather high, but not particularly large, communicating with another 
room, into which, however, I do not go, though there are noble 
things in that second room — immortal things, by immortal artists ; 
amongst others, a grand piece of Corregio ; I do not enter it, for 
the grand picture of the world is not there : but I stand still 
immediately on entering the first room, and I look straight before 
me, neither to the right nor left, though there are noble things 
both on the right and left, for immediately before me at the 
farther end, hanging against the wall, is a picture which arrests 
me, and I can see nothing else, for that picture at the farther end 
hanging against the wall is the picture of the world . . 

Yes, go thy way, young enthusiast, and, whether to London 
town or to old Rome, may success attend thee ; yet strange fears 
assail me and misgivings on thy account. Thou canst not rest, 
thou say’st, till thou hast seen the picture in the chamber at old 
Rome hanging over against the wall; ay, and thus thou dost 
exemplify thy weakness — thy strength too, it may be — for the 
one idea, fantastic yet lovely, which now possesses thee, could 
only have originated in a genial and fervent brain. Well, go, if 
thou must go ; yet it perhaps were better for thee to bide in thy 
native land, and there, with fear and trembling, with groanings, 
with straining eyeballs, toil, drudge, slave, till thou hast made 
excellence thine own ; thou wilt scarcely acquire it by staring at 
the picture over against the door in the high chamber of old 
Rome. Seekest thou inspiration ? thou needest it not, thou hast 
it already ; and it was never yet found by crossing the sea. What 
hast thou to do with old Rome, and thou an Englishman ? “ Did 

thy blood never glow at the mention of thy native land ? ” as an 
artist merely ? Yes, I trow, and with reason, for thy native land 
need not grudge old Rome her “ pictures of the world ” ; she has 
pictures of her own, “ pictures of England ” ; and is it a new thing 
to toss up caps and shout — England against the world? Yes, 
against the world in all, in all ; in science and in arms, in minstrel 
strain, and not less in the art “which enables the hand to deceive 
the intoxicated soul by means of pictures Seek’st models? to 


Klopstock 


38 


LA VENGRO. 


[1821. 


Gainsborough and Hogarth turn, not names of the world, may 
be, but English names — and England against the world ! A living 
master? why, there he comes! thou hast had him long, he has 
long guided thy young hand towards the excellence which is yet 
far from thee, but which thou canst attain if thou shouldst persist 
and wrestle, even as he has done, midst gloom and despondency 
— ay, and even contempt ; he who now comes up the creaking 
stair to thy little studio in the second floor to inspect thy last 
effort before thou departest, the little stout man whose face is very 
dark, and whose eye is vivacious ; that man has attained excellence, 
destined some day to be acknowledged, though not till he is cold, 
and his mortal part returned to its kindred clay. He has painted, 
not pictures of the world, but English pictures, such as Gains- 
borough himself might have done; beautiful rural pieces, with 
trees which might well tempt the wild birds to perch upon them : 
thou needest not run to Rome, brother, where lives the old Mario- 
later, after pictures of the world, whilst at home there are pictures 
of England ; nor needest thou even go to London, the big city, 
in search of a master, for thou hast one at home in the old East 
Anglian town who can instruct thee whilst thou needest instruc- 
tion. Better stay at home, brother, at least for a season, and toil 
and strive ’midst groanings and despondency till thou hast attained 
excellence even as he has done — the little dark man with the 
brown coat and the top-boots, whose name will one day be con- 
sidered the chief ornament of the old town, and whose works will 
at no distant period rank among the proudest pictures of England 
— and England against the world ! — thy master, my brother, thy, 
at present, all too little considered master — Crome. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


But to proceed with my own story : I now ceased all at once to 
take much pleasure in the pursuits which formerly interested me, 
I yawned over Ab Gwilym ; even as I now in my mind’s eye 
perceive the reader yawning over the present pages. What was 
the cause of this ? Constitutional lassitude, or a desire for novelty ? 
Both it is probable had some influence in the matter, but I rather 
think that the latter feeling was predominant. The parting words 
of my brother had sunk into my mind. He had talked of travel- 
ling in strange regions and seeing strange and wonderful objects, 
and my imagination fell to work and drew pictures of adventures 
wild and fantastic, and I thought what a fine thing it must be to 
travel, and I wished that my father would give me his blessing, 
and the same sum that he had given my brother, and bid me go 
forth into the world ; always forgetting that I had neither talents 
nor energies at this period which would enable me to make any 
successful figure on its stage. 

And then I again sought up the book which had so captivated 
me in my infancy, and I read it through ; and I sought up others 
of a similar character, and in seeking for them I met books also 
of adventure, but by no means of a harmless description, lives of 
wicked and lawless men, Murray and Latroon — books of singular 
power, but of coarse and prurient imagination — books at one time 
highly in vogue ; now deservedly forgotten, and most difficult to 
be found. 

And when I had gone through these books, what was my 
state of mind ? I had derived entertainment from their perusal, 
but they left me more listless and unsettled than before, and I 
really knew not what to do to pass my time. My philological 
studies had become distasteful, and I had never taken any pleasure 
in the duties of my profession. I sat behind my desk in a state of 
torpor, my mind almost as blank as the paper before me, on which 
I rarely traced a line. It was always a relief to hear the bell ring, 
as it afforded me an opportunity of doing something which I was 
yet capable of doing, to rise and open the door and stare in the 


140 


LA VENGRO. 


[1820. 


countenances of the visitors. All of a sudden I fell to studying 
countenances, and soon flattered myself that I had made consider- 
able progress in the science. 

“There is no faith in countenances,” said some Roman of 
old; “trust anything but a person’s countenance.” “Not trust 
a man’s countenance ? ” say some moderns, “ why, it is the only 
thing in many people that we can trust ; on which account they 
keep it most assiduously out of the way. Trust not a man’s words 
if you please, or you may come to very erroneous conclusions ; 
but at all times place implicit confidence in a man’s countenance, 
in which there is no deceit ; and of necessity there can be none. 
If people would but look each other more in the face, we should 
have less cause to complain of the deception of the world ; noth- 
ing so easy as physiognomy nor so useful.” Somewhat in this 
latter strain I thought, at the time of which I am speaking. I 
am now older, and let us hope, less presumptuous. It is true 
that in the course of my life I have scarcely ever had occasion 
to repent placing confidence in individuals whose countenances 
have prepossessed me in their favour ; though to how many I may 
have been unjust, from whose countenances I may have drawn 
unfavourable conclusions, is another matter. 

But it had been decreed by Fate, which governs our every 
action, that I was soon to return to my old pursuits. It was 
written that I should not yet cease to be Lavengro, though I had 
become, in my own opinion, a kind of Lavater. It is singular 
enough that my renewed ardour for philology seems to have been 
brought about indirectly by my physiognomical researches, in 
which had I not indulged, the event which I am about to relate, 
as far as connected with myself, might never have occurred. 
Amongst the various countenances which I admitted during the 
period of my answering the bell, there were two which particularly 
pleased me, and which belonged to an elderly yeoman and his 
wife, whom some little business had brought to our law sanctuary. 
I believe they experienced from me some kindness and attention, 
which won the old people’s hearts. So, one day, when their 
little business had been brought to a conclusion, and they chanced 
to be alone with me, who was seated as usual behind the deal desk 
in the outer room, the old man with some confusion began to tell 
me how grateful himself and dame felt for the many attentions I 
had shown them, and how desirous they were to make me some 
remuneration. “ Of course,” said the old man, “ we must be 
cautious what we offer to so fine a young gentleman as yourself ; 
we have, however, something we think will just suit the occasion, 


THE DANES. 


1820.] 


141 


a strange kind of thing which people say is a book, though no one 
that my dame or myself have shown it to can make anything out 
of it ; so as we are told that you are a fine young gentleman, who 
can read all the tongues of the earth and stars, as the Bible says, 
we thought, I and my dame, that it would be just the thing you 
would like ; and my dame has it now at the bottom of her 
basket.” 

“ A book,” said I, “ how did you come by it ? ” 

“ We live near the sea,” said the old man ; “ so near that 
sometimes our thatch is wet with the spray ; and it may now be a 
year ago that there was a fearful storm, and a ship was driven 
ashore during the night, and ere the morn was a complete wreck. 
When we got up at daylight, there were the poor shivering crew 
at our door ; they were foreigners, red-haired men, whose speech 
we did not understand ; but we took them in, and warmed them, 
and they remained with us three days ; and when they went away 
they left behind them this thing, here it is, part of the contents of 
a box which was washed ashore.” 

“And did you learn who they were ? ” 

“ Why, yes ; they made us understand that they were 
Danes.” 

Danes ! thought I, Danes ! and instantaneously, huge and 
grizly, appeared to rise up before my vision the skull of the old 
pirate Dane, even as I had seen it of yore in the pent-house of the 
ancient church to which, with my mother and my brother, I had 
wandered on the memorable summer eve. 

And now the old man handed me the book ; a strange and 
uncouth-looking volume enough. It was not very large, but in- 
stead of the usual covering was bound in wood, and was compressed 
with strong iron clasps. It was a printed book, but the pages 
were not of paper, but vellum, and the characters were black, and 
resembled those generally termed Gothic. 

“ It is certainly a curious book,” said I ; “ and I should like 
to have it, but I can't think of taking it as a gift, I must give you 
an equivalent, I never take presents from anybody.” 

The old man whispered with his dame and chuckled, and then 
turned his face to me and said, with another chuckle : “ Well, we 
have agreed about the price ; but maybe you will not consent.” 

“ I don’t know,” said I ; “ what do you demand ? ” 

“Why, that you shake me by the hand, and hold out your 
cheek to my old dame, she has taken an affection to you.” 

“ I shall be very glad to shake you by the hand,” said I, “ but 
as for the other condition it requires consideration.” 


142 


LA VENGRO. 


[1820. 


“ No consideration at all,” said the old man, with something 
like a sigh ; “ she thinks you like her son, our only child 
that was lost twenty years ago in the waves of the North 
Sea.” 

“ Oh, that alters the case altogether,” said I, “and of course 
I can have no objection.” 

And now, at once, I shook off my listlessness, to enable me 
to do which nothing could have happened more opportune than 
the above event. The Danes, the Danes ! And I was at last to 
become acquainted, and in so singular a manner, with the speech 
of a people which had as far back as I could remember exercised 
the strongest influence over my imagination, as how should they 
not ! — in infancy there was the summer-eve adventure, to which I 
often looked back, and always with a kind of strange interest, with 
respect to those to whom such gigantic and wondrous bones could 
belong as I had seen on that occasion ; and more than this, I had 
been in Ireland, and there, under peculiar circumstances, this 
same interest was increased tenfold. I had mingled much whilst 
there with the genuine Irish — a wild, but kind-hearted race, whose 
conversation was deeply imbued with traditionary lore, connected 
with the early history of their own romantic land, and from them 
I heard enough of the Danes, but nothing commonplace, for they 
never mentioned them but in terms which tallied well with my 
own preconceived ideas. For at an early period the Danes had 
invaded Ireland, and had subdued it, and, though eventually 
driven out, had left behind them an enduring remembrance in 
the minds of the people, who loved to speak of their strength and 
their stature, in evidence of which they would point to the ancient 
raths or mounds, where the old Danes were buried, and where 
bones of extraordinary size were occasionally exhumed. And as the 
Danes surpassed other people in strength, so, according to my 
narrators, they also excelled all others in wisdom, or rather in 
Draoitheac , or Magic, for they were powerful sorcerers, they said, 
compared with whom the fairy men of the present day knew 
nothing at all, at all ! and, amongst other wonderful things, they 
knew how to make strong beer from the heather that grows upon 
the bogs. Little wonder if the interest, the mysterious interest, 
which I had early felt about the Danes, was increased tenfold by 
my sojourn in Ireland. 

And now I had in my possession a Danish book, which, from 
its appearance, might be supposed to have belonged to the very 
old Danes indeed ; but how was I to turn it to any account ? I 
had the book, it is true, but I did not understand the language, 


1 8m] 


MUGGLETONIANS. 


143 


and how was I to overcome that difficulty ? hardly by poring over 
the book ; yet I did pore over the book, daily and nightly, till my 
eyes were dim, and it appeared to me every now and then I 
encountered words which I understood — English words, though 
strangely disguised ; and I said to myself, courage ! English and 
Danish are cognate dialects, a time will come when I shall under- 
stand this Danish ; and then I pored over the book again, but 
with all my poring I could not understand it ; and then I became 
angry, and I bit my lips till the blood came ; and I occasionally 
tore a handful from my hair and flung it upon the floor, but that 
did not mend the matter, for still I did not understand the book, 
which, however, I began to see was written in rhyme — a circum- 
stance rather difficult to discover at first, the arrangement of the 
lines not differing from that which is employed in prose ; and its 
being written in rhyme made me only the more eager to under- 
stand it. 

But I toiled in vain, for I had neither grammar nor dictionary 
of the language ; and when I sought for them could procure 
neither ; and I was much dispirited, till suddenly a bright thought 
came into my head, and I said, although I cannot obtain a 
dictionary or grammar, I can perhaps obtain a Bible in this 
language, and if I can procure a Bible, I can learn the language, 
for the Bible in every tongue contains the same thing, and I have 
only to compare the words of the Danish Bible with those of 
the English, and, if I persevere, I shall in time acquire the 
language of the Danes ; and I was pleased with the thought, 
which I considered to be a bright one, and I no longer bit my 
lips, or tore my hair, but took my hat, and, going forth, I flung 
my hat into the air. 

And when my hat came down, I put it on my head and 
commenced running, directing my course to the house of the 
Antinomian preacher, who sold books, and whom I knew to 
have Bibles in various tongues amongst the number, and I 
arrived out of breath, and I found the Antinomian in his little 
library, dusting his books ; and the Antinomian clergyman was a 
tall man of about seventy, who wore a hat with a broad brim and 
a shallow crown, and whose manner of speaking was exceedingly 
nasal ; and when I saw him, I cried, out of breath, “ Have you a 
Danish Bible?” and he replied, “What do you want it for, 
friend ? ” and I answered, “ to learn Danish by ; ” “ and may be 
to learn thy duty, ” replied the Antinomian preacher. “Truly, I 
have it not ; but, as you are a customer of mine, I will endeavour 
to procure you one, and I will write to that laudable society 


i 4 4 


LA VENGRO . 


[1820. 


which men call the Bible Society, an unworthy member of which 
I am, and I hope by next week to procure what you desire.” 

And when I heard these words of the old man, I was very 
glad, and my heart yearned towards him, and I would fain enter 
into conversation with him ; and I said, “ Why are you an 
Antinomian ? For my part, I would rather be a dog than belong 
to such a religion.” “ Nay, friend,” said the Antinomian, “ thou 
forejudgest us ; know that those who call us Antinomians call us 
so despitefully, we do not acknowledge the designation.” “ Then 
you do not set all law at nought?” said I. “Far be it from 
us,” said the old man, “ we only hope that, being sanctified by 
the Spirit from above, we have no need of the law to keep us in 
order. Did you ever hear tell of Lodowick Muggleton?” “Not 
I.” “That is strange; know then that he was the founder of 
our poor society, and after him we are frequently, though op- 
probriously, termed Muggletonians, for we are Christians. Here 
is his book, which, perhaps, you can do no better than purchase, 
you are fond of rare books, and this is both curious and rare ; I 
will sell it cheap. Thank you, and now be gone, I will do all I 
can to procure the Bible.” 

And in this manner I procured the Danish Bible, and I com- 
menced my task ; first of all, however, I locked up in a closet the 
volume which had excited my curiosity, saying, “ Out of this 
closet thou comest not till I deem myself competent to read 
thee,” and then I sat down in right earnest, comparing every line 
in the one version with the corresponding one in the other ; and 
I passed entire nights in this manner, till I was almost blind, and 
the task was tedious enough at first, but I quailed not, and soon 
began to make progress. And at first I had a misgiving that the 
old book might not prove a Danish book, but was soon reassured 
by reading many words in the Bible which I remembered to have 
seen in the book ; and then I went on right merrily, and I found 
that the language which I was studying was by no means a 
difficult one, and in less than a month I deemed myself able to 
read the book. 

Anon, I took the book from the closet, and proceeded to make 
myself master of its contents ; I had some difficulty, for the 
language of the book, though in the main the same as the 
language of the Bible, differed from it in some points, being 
apparently a more ancient dialect ; by degrees, however, I over- 
came this difficulty, and I understood the contents of the book, 
and well did they correspond with all those ideas in which I had 
indulged connected with the Danes. For the book was a book 


KCEMPE VISER. 


145 


1820.] 


of ballads, about the deeds of knights and champions, and men 
of huge stature ; ballads which from time immemorial had been 
sung in the North, and which some two centuries before the time 
of which I am speaking had been collected by one Anders Vedel, 
who lived with a certain Tycho Brahe, and assisted him in 
making observations upon the heavenly bodies, at a place called 
Uranias Castle, on the little island of Hveen, in the Cattegat. 


10 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


It might be some six months after the events last recorded, that 
two individuals were seated together in a certain room, in a 
certain street of the old town which I have so frequently had 
occasion to mention in the preceding pages ; one of them was an 
elderly, and the other a very young man, and they sat on either 
side of the fire-place, beside a table, on which were fruit and 
wine; the room was a small one, and in its furniture exhibited 
nothing remarkable. Over the mantelpiece, however, hung a 
small picture with naked figures in the foreground, and with 
much foliage behind. It might not have struck every beholder, 
for it looked old and smoke-dried ; but a connoisseur, on inspect- 
ing it closely, would have pronounced it to be a Judgment of 
Paris, and a masterpiece of the Flemish School. 

The forehead of the elder individual was high, and perhaps 
appeared more so than it really was, from the hair being carefully 
brushed back, as if for the purpose of displaying to the best 
advantage that part of the cranium ; his eyes were large and full, 
and of a light brown, and might have been called heavy and dull, 
had they not been occasionally lighted up by a sudden gleam — 
not so brilliant, however, as that which at every inhalation shone 
from the bowl of the long clay pipe he was smoking, but which, 
from a certain sucking sound which about this time began to be 
heard from the bottom, appeared to be giving notice that it 
would soon require replenishment from a certain canister, which, 
together with a lighted taper, stood upon the table beside 
him. 

‘‘You do not smoke?” said he, at length, laying down his 
pipe, and directing his glance to his companion. 

Now there was at least one thing singular connected with this 
last, namely, the colour of his hair, which, notwithstanding his 
extreme youth, appeared to be rapidly becoming grey. He had 
very long limbs, and was apparently tall of stature, in which 
he differed from his elderly companion, who must have been 
somewhat below the usual height. 

(146) 



William Taylor of Norwich (born 1765, died 1836). 

[Pacing page 146, 


Lavcngro .] 




TUB ANGLO-GERMANIST. 


H7 


1281.] 


“No, I can’t smoke,” said the youth in reply to the observa- 
tion of the other. “ I have often tried, but could never succeed 
to my satisfaction.” 

“ Is it possible to become a good German without smoking?” 
said the senior, half-speaking to himself. 

“ I dare say not,” said the youth ; “but I shan’t break my 
heart on that account.” 

“ As for breaking your heart, of course you would never think 
of such a thing ; he is a fool who breaks his heart on any ac- 
count ; but it is good to be a German, the Germans are the most 
philosophic people in the world, and the greatest smokers ; now 
I trace their philosophy to their smoking.” 

“I have heard say their philosophy is all smoke — is that 
your opinion ? ” 

“ Why, no ; but smoking has a sedative effect upon the nerves, 
and enables a man to bear the sorrows of this life (of which every 
one has his share) not only decently, but dignifiedly. Suicide is 
not a national habit in Germany as it is in England.” 

“ But that poor creature, Werther, who committed suicide, 
was a German.” 

“ Werther is a fictitious character, and by no means a feli- 
citous one ; I am no admirer either of Werther or his author. 
But I should say that, if there was a Werther in Germany, he 
did not smoke. Werther, as you very justly observe, was a poor 
creature.” 

“ And a very sinful one ; I have heard my parents say that 
suicide is a great crime.” 

“ Broadly, and without qualification, to say that suicide is 
a crime, is speaking somewhat unphilosophically. No doubt 
suicide, under many circumstances, is a crime, a very heinous one. 
When the father of a family, for example, to escape from certain 
difficulties, commits suicide, he commits a crime ; there are those 
around him who look to him for support, by the law of nature, 
and he has no right to withdraw himself from those who have a 
claim upon his exertions ; he is a person who decamps with other 
people’s goods as well as his own. Indeed, there can be no 
crime which is not founded upon the depriving others of some- 
thing which belongs to them. A man is hanged for setting fire 
to his house in a crowded city, for he burns at the same time or 
damages those of other people ; but if a man who has a house on 
a heath sets fire to it, he is not hanged, for he has not damaged 
or endangered any other individual’s property, and the principle 
of revenge, upon which all punishment is founded, has not been 


148 


LA VENGKO. 


[1 821. 


aroused. Similar to such a case is that of the man who, without 
any family ties, commits suicide ; for example, were I to do the 
thing this evening, who would have a right to call me to account ? 
I am alone in the world, have no family to support and, so far 
from damaging any one, should even benefit my heir by my ac- 
celerated death. However, I am no advocate for suicide under 
any circumstances ; there is something undignified in it, unheroic, 
un-Germanic. But if you must commit suicide — and there is no 
knowing to what people may be brought — always contrive to do 
it as decorously as possible ; the decencies, whether of life or 
of death, should never be lost sight of. I remember a female 
Quaker who committed suicide by cutting her throat, but she did 
it decorously and decently : kneeling down over a pail, so that 
not one drop fell upon the floor, thus exhibiting in her last act 
that nice sense of neatness for which Quakers are distinguished. 
I have always had a respect for that woman’s memory.” 

And here, filling his pipe from the canister, and lighting it at 
the taper, he recommenced smoking calmly and sedately. 

“But is not suicide forbidden in the Bible?” the youth 
demanded. 

“Why, no; but what though it were ! — the Bible is a respect- 
able book, but I should hardly call it one whose philosophy is of 
the soundest. I have said that it is a respectable book ; I mean 
respectable from its antiquity, and from containing, as Herder says, 
‘ the earliest records of the human race,’ though those records are 
far from being dispassionately written, on which account they are 
of less value than they otherwise might have been. There is too 
much passion in the’ Bible, too much violence ; now, to come to 
all truth, especially historic truth, requires cool, dispassionate in- 
vestigation, for which the Jews do not appear to have ever been 
famous. We are ourselves not famous for it, for we are a 
passionate people ; the Germans are not — they are not a passion- 
ate people — a people celebrated for their oaths : we are. The 
Germans have many excellent historic writers, we — ’tis true we 
have Gibbon. You have been reading Gibbon — what do you 
think of him ? ” 

“I think him a very wonderful writer.” 

“ He is a wonderful writer — one sui generis — uniting the per- 
spicuity of the English — for we are perspicuous — with the cool, 
dispassionate reasoning of the Germans. Gibbon sought after 
the truth, found it, and made it clear ” 

“ Then you think Gibbon a truthful writer.” 

“Why, yes ; who shall convict Gibbon of falsehood ? Many 


GIBBON. 


149 


1821.] 


people have endeavoured to convict Gibbon of falsehood ; they 
have followed him in his researches, and have never found him 
once tripping. Oh, he’s a wonderful writer ! his power of con- 
densation is admirable; the lore of the whole world is to be 
found in his pages. Sometimes in a single note he has given us 
the result of the study of years ; or, to speak metaphorically, ‘ he 
has ransacked a thousand Gulistans, and has condensed all his 
fragrant booty into a single drop of otto 

“ But was not Gibbon an enemy to the Christian faith ? ” 

“Why, no; he was rather an enemy to priestcraft, so am I ; 
and when I say the philosophy of the Bible is in many respects 
unsound, I always wish to make an exception in favour of that 
part of it which contains the life and sayings of Jesus of Bethlehem, 
to which I must always concede my unqualified admiration — of 
Jesus, mind you; for with his followers and their dogmas I have 
nothing to do. Of all historic characters, Jesus is the most 
beautiful and the most heroic. I have always been a friend to 
hero-worship, it is the only rational one, and has always been 
in use amongst civilised people — the worship of spirits is 
synonymous with barbarism — it is mere fetish ; the savages 
of West Africa are all spirit worshippers. But there is some- 
thing philosophic in the worship of the heroes of the human 
race, and the true hero is the benefactor. Brahma, Jupiter, 
Bacchus, were all benefactors, and, therefore, entitled to the 
worship of their respective peoples. The Celts worshipped 
Hesus, who taught them to plough, a highly useful art. We, who 
have attained a much higher state of civilisation than the Celts 
ever did, worship Jesus, the first who endeavoured to teach men 
to behave decently and decorously under all circumstances ; who 
was the foe of vengeance, in which there is something highly 
indecorous; who had first the courage to lift his voice against 
that violent dogma, ‘an eye for an eye’; who shouted conquer, 
but conquer with kindness ; who said put up the sword, a violent, 
unphilosophic weapon ; and who finally died calmly and de- 
corously in defence of his philosophy. He must be a savage who 
denies vrorship to the hero of Golgotha.” 

“ But he was something more than a hero ; he was the Son of 
God, wasn’t he ?” 

The elderly individual made no immediate answer ; but, after 
a few more whiffs from his pipe, exclaimed : “ Come, fill your 
glass ! How do you advance with your translation of Tell ? ” 

“ It is nearly finished ; but I do not think I shall proceed with 
it ; I begin to think the original somewhat dull.” 


152 


LA VENGRO. 


[1821. 


truth, he attributes to my misconduct. He says that I have 
imbibed all kinds of strange notions and doctrines, which will, in 
all probability, prove my ruin, both here and hereafter ; which — 
which ” 

“ Ah ! I understand,” said the elder, with another calm whiff. 
“ I have always had a kind of respect for your father, for there is 
something remarkable in his appearance, something heroic, and I 
would fain have cultivated his acquaintance ; the feeling, however, 
has not been reciprocated. I met him, the other day, up the 
road, with his cane and dog, and saluted him ; he did not return 
my salutation.” 

“ He has certain opinions of his own,” said the youth, “ which 
are widely different from those which he has heard that you 
profess.” 

“ I respect a man for entertaining an opinion of his own,” said 
the elderly individual. “ I hold certain opinions ; but I should 
not respect an individual the more for adopting them. All I wish 
for is tolerance, which I myself endeavour to practise. I have 
always loved the truth, and sought it ; if I have not found it, the 
greater my misfortune.” 

“ Are you happy? ” said the young man. 

“ Why, no ! And, between ourselves, it is that which induces 
me to doubt sometimes the truth of my opinions. My life, upon 
the whole, I consider a failure ; on which account I would not 
counsel you, or any one, to follow my example too closely. It is 
getting late, and you had better be going, especially as your father, 
you say, is anxious about you. But, as we may never meet again, 
I think there are three things which I may safely venture to press 
upon you. The first is, that the decencies and gentlenesses should 
never be lost sight of, as the practice of the decencies and gentle- 
nesses is at all times compatible with independence of thought 
and action. The second thing which I would wish to impress 
upon you is, that there is always some eye upon us ; and that it 
is impossible to keep anything we do from the world, as it will 
assuredly be divulged by somebody as soon as it is his interest 
to do so. The third thing which I would wish to press upon 
you ” 

“ Yes,” said the youth, eagerly bending forward. 

“ Is ” and here the elderly individual laid down his pipe 

upon the table — “ that it will be as well to go on improving 
yourself in German J ” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


“ Holloa, master ! can you tell us where the fight is likely to 
be ? ” 

Such were the words shouted out to me by a short thick 
fellow in brown top-boots, and bare-headed, who stood, with his 
hands in his pockets, at the door of a country alehouse as I was 
passing by. 

Now, as I knew nothing about the fight, and as the appearance 
of the man did not tempt me greatly to enter into conversation 
with him, I merely answered in the negative and continued my 
way. 

It was a fine lovely morning in May, the sun shone bright 
above, and the birds were carolling in the hedgerows. I was 
wont to be cheerful at such seasons, for, from my earliest recollec- 
tion, sunshine and the song of birds have been dear to me ; yet, 
about that period, I was not cheerful, my mind was not at rest ; 
I was debating within myself, and the debate was dreary and un- 
satisfactory enough. I sighed, and turning my eyes upward, I 
ejaculated : “ What is truth ? ” But suddenly, by a violent effort 
breaking away from my meditations, I hastened forward ; one 
mile, two miles, three miles were speedily left behind ; and now 
I came to a grove of birch and other trees, and opening a gate I 
passed up a kind of avenue, and soon arriving before a large 
brick house, of rather antique appearance, knocked at the door. 

In this house there lived a gentleman with whom I had 
business. He was said to be a genuine old English gentleman, 
and a man of considerable property; at this time, however, he 
wanted a thousand pounds, as gentlemen of considerable property 
every now and then do. I had brought him a thousand pounds 
in my pocket, for it is astonishing how many eager helpers the 
rich find, and with what compassion people look upon their 
distresses. He was said to have good wine in his cellar. 

“ Is your master at home? ” said I, to a servant who appeared 
at the door. 

“ His worship is at home, young man,” said the servant, as 
he looked at my shoes, which bore evidence that I had come 

(153) 


54 


LA VENGRO. 


[1820. 


walking. “ I beg your pardon, sir,” he added, as he looked me 
in the face. 

“ Ay, ay, servants,” thought I, as I followed the man into the 
house, “ always look people in the face when you open the door, 
and do so before you look at their shoes, or you may mistake the 
heir of a Prime Minister for a shopkeeper’s son/’ 

I found his worship a jolly, red-faced gentleman, of about 
fifty-five ; he was dressed in a green coat, white corduroy 
breeches, and drab gaiters, and sat on an old-fashioned leather 
sofa, with two small, thorough-bred, black English terriers, one 
on each side of him. He had all the appearance of a genuine 
old English gentleman who kept good wine in his cellar. 

“ Sir,” said I, “ I have brought you a thousand pounds ; ” and 
I said this after the servant had retired, and the two terriers had 
ceased their barking, which is natural to all such dogs at the sight 
of a stranger. 

And when the magistrate had received the money, and signed 
and returned a certain paper which I handed to him, he rubbed 
his hands, and looking very benignantly at me, exclaimed : — 

“ And now, young gentleman, that our business is over, 
perhaps you can tell me where the fight is to take place?” 

“I am sorry, sir,” said I, “that I can’t inform you, but 
everybody seems to be anxious about it ; ” and then I told him 
what had occurred to me on the road with the alehouse keeper. 

“ I know him,” said his worship ; “ he’s a tenant of mine, and 
a good fellow, somewhat too much in my debt, though. But how 
is this, young gentleman, you look as if you had been walking ; 
you did not come on foot?” 

“ Yes, sir, I came on foot.” 

“ On foot ! why, it is sixteen miles.” 

“ I shan’t be tired when I have walked back.” 

“You can’t ride, I suppose? ” 

“ Better than I can walk.” 

“Then why do you walk?” 

“ I have frequently to make journeys connected with my 
profession ; sometimes I walk, sometimes I ride, just as the whim 
takes me.” 

“ Will you take a glass of wine ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ That’s right ; what shall it be ? ” 

“ Madeira ! ” 

The magistrate gave a violent slap on his knee ; “ I like your 
taste,” said he, “ I am fond of a glass of Madeira myself, and can 


THE MAGISTRATE. 


155 


1820.] 


give you such a one as you will not drink every day ; sit down, 
young gentleman, you shall have a glass of Madeira, and the 
best I have.” 

Thereupon he got up, and, followed by his two terriers, walked 
slowly out of the room. 

I looked round the room, and, seeing nothing which promised 
me much amusement, I sat down, and fell again into my former 
train of thought. 

“ What is truth ? ” said I. 

“ Here it is,” said the magistrate, returning at the end of a 
quarter of an hour, followed by the servant with a tray ; “ here’s 
the true thing, or I am no judge, far less a justice. It has been 
thirty years in my cellar last Christmas. There,” said he to the 
servant, “put it down, and leave my young friend and me to 
ourselves. Now, what do you think of it?” 

“ It is very good,” said I. 

“ Did you ever taste better Madeira ? ” 

“I never before tasted Madeira.” 

“ Then you ask for a wine without knowing what it is? ” 

“ I ask for it, sir, that I may know what it is.” 

“ Well, there is logic in that, as Parr would say ; you have 
heard of Parr ? ” 

“Old Parr?” 

“Yes, old Parr, but not that Parr; you mean the English, I 
the Greek Parr, as people call him.” 

“ I don’t know him.” 

“ Perhaps not — rather too young for that, but were you of my 
age, you might have cause to know him, coming from where you 
do. He kept school there, I was his first scholar; he flogged 
Greek into me till I loved him — and he loved me. He came to 
see me last year, and sat in that chair ; I honour Parr — he knows 
much, and is a sound man.” 

“ Does he know the truth ? ” 

“ Know the truth ! he knows what’s good, from an oyster to 
an ostrich — he’s not only sound but round.” 

“ Suppose we drink his health ? ” 

“ Thank you, boy : here’s Parr’s health, and Whiter’s.” 

“Who is Whiter?” 

“ Don’t you know Whiter? I thought everybody knew Reverend 
Whiter, the philologist, though I suppose you scarcely know what 
that means. A man fond of tongues and languages, quite out 
of your way — he understands some twenty ; what do you say 
to that ? ” 


156 


LA VENGRO. 


[1820* 


“ Is he a sound man ? ” 

“ Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say ; he has got 
queer notions in his head — wrote a book to prove that all words 
came originally from the earth — who knows? Words have roots, 
and roots live in the earth ; but, upon the whole, I should not 
call him altogether a sound man, though he can talk Greek nearly 
as fast as Parr.” 

“ Is he a round man ? ” 

“Ay, boy, rounder than Parr; I’ll sing you a song, if you 
like, which will let you into his character: — 

‘ Give me the haunch of a buck to eat, and to drink Madeira old, 

And a gentle wife to rest with, and in my arms to fold, 

An Arabic book to study, a Norfolk cob to ride, 

And a house to live in shaded with trees, and near to a river side ; 

With such good things around me, and blessed with good health withal, 
Though I should live for a hundred years, for death I would not call.’ 

Here’s to Whiter’s health — so you know nothing about the fight ? ” 

“ No, sir ; the truth is, that of late I have been very much 
occupied with various matters, otherwise I should, perhaps,, have 
been able to afford you some information. Boxing is a noble art.” 

“ Can you box? ” 

“ A little.” 

“ I tell you what, my boy ; I honour you, and, provided your 
education had been a little less limited, I should have been glad 
to see you here in company with Parr and Whiter ; both can box. 
Boxing is, as you say, a noble art — a truly English art ; may I 
never see the day when Englishmen shall feel ashamed of it, or 
blacklegs and blackguards bring it into disgrace ! I am a magis- 
trate, and, of course, cannot patronise the thing very openly, yet I 
sometimes see a prize-fight. I saw the Game Chicken beat Gulley.” 

“ Did you ever see Big Ben ? ” 

“No, why do you ask?” But here we heard a noise, like 
that of a gig driving up to the door, which was immediately 
succeeded by a violent knocking and ringing, and after a little 
time, the servant who had admitted me made his appearance in 
the room. 

“Sir,” said he, with a certain eagerness of manner, “ here are 
two gentlemen waiting to speak to you.” 

“ Gentlemen waiting to speak to me ! who are they ? ” 

“ I don’t know, sir,” said the servant ; “ but they look like 
sporting gentlemen, and — and ’’---here he hesitated; “from a 
word or two they dropped, I almost think that they come about 
the fight.” 


THURTELL AND PAINTER. 


57 


1820.] 


“ About the fight,” said the magistrate. “ No, that can 
hardly be ; however, you had better show them in.” 

Heavy steps were now heard ascending the stairs, and the 
servant ushered two men into the apartment. Again there was 
a barking, but louder than that which had been directed against 
myself, for here were two intruders ; both of them were remark- 
able looking men, but to the foremost of them the most particular 
notice may well be accorded : he was a man somewhat under 
thirty, and nearly six feet in height. He was dressed in a blue 
coat, white corduroy breeches, fastened below the knee with 
small golden buttons; on his legs he wore white lamb's-wool 
stockings, and on his feet shoes reaching to the ankles ; round his 
neck was a handkerchief of the blue and bird’s-eye pattern ; he 
wore neither whiskers nor moustaches, and appeared not to 
delight in hair, that of his head, which was of a light brown, being 
closely cropped; the forehead was rather high, but somewhat 
narrow ; the face neither broad nor sharp, perhaps rather sharp 
than broad ; the nose was almost delicate ; the eyes were grey, 
with an expression in which there was sternness blended with 
something approaching to feline ; his complexion was exceedingly 
pale, relieved, however, by certain pockmarks, which here and 
there studded his countenance ; his form was athletic, but lean ; 
his arms long. In the whole appearance of the man there was a 
blending of the bluff and the sharp. You might have supposed 
him a bruiser ; his dress was that of one in all its minutiae ; some- 
thing was wanting, however, in his manner — the quietness of the 
professional man ; he rather looked liked one performing the part 
— well — very well — but still performing a part. His companion ! 
— there, indeed, was the bruiser — no mistake about him : a tall, 
massive man, with a broad countenance and a flattened nose; 
dressed like a bruiser, but not like a bruiser going into the ring ; 
he wore white topped boots, and a loose brown jockey coat. 

As the first advanced towards the table, behind which the 
magistrate sat, he doffed a white castor from his head, and made 
rather a genteel bow ; looking at me, who sat somewhat on one 
side, he gave a kind of nod of recognition. 

“ May I request to know who you are, gentlemen ? n said the 
magistrate. 

“ Sir,” said the man in a deep, but not unpleasant voice, 

“ allow me to introduce to you my friend, Mr. , the celebrated 

pugilist ; ” and he motioned with his hand towards the massive 
man with the flattened nose. 

“ And your own name, sir ? ” said the magistrate. 

“My name is no matter,” said the man ; “were I to mention 


158 


LA VENGRO. 


[1820. 


it to you, it would awaken within you no feeling of interest. It 
is neither Kean nor Belcher, and I have as yet done nothing to 
distinguish myself like either of those individuals, or even like 
my friend here. However, a time may come — we are not yet 
buried ; and whensoever my hour arrives, I hope I shall prove 
myself equal to my destiny, however high — 

* Like bird that’s bred amongst the Helicons V’ 

And here a smile half-theatrical passed over his features. 

“ In what can I oblige you, sir?” said the magistrate. 

“ Well, sir ; the soul of wit is brevity ; we want a place for an 
approaching combat between my friend here and a brave from 
town. Passing by your broad acres this fine morning we saw a 
pightle, which we deemed would suit. Lend us that pightle, and 
receive our thanks ; ’twould be a favour, though not much to 
grant : we neither ask for Stonehenge nor for Tempe.” 

My friend looked somewhat perplexed ; after a moment, how- 
ever, he said, with a firm but gentlemanly air : “ Sir, I am sorry 
that I cannot comply with your request ”. 

“Not comply!” said the man, his brow becoming dark as 
midnight ; and with a hoarse and savage tone : “Not comply ! 
why not?” 

“It is impossible, sir; utterly impossible! ” 

“ Why so?” 

“I am not compelled to give my reasons to you, sir, nor 
to any man.” 

“ Let me beg of you to alter your decision,” said the man 
in a tone of profound respect. 

“ Utterly impossible, sir ; I am a magistrate.” 

“ Magistrate ! then fare ye well, for a green-coated buffer and 
a Harmanbeck.” 

“Sir!” said the magistrate, springing up with a face fiery 
with wrath. 

But, with a surly nod to me, the man left the apartment ; 
and in a moment more the heavy footsteps of himself and his 
companion were heard descending the staircase. 

“Who is that man?” said my friend, turning towards me. 

“ A sporting gentleman, well known in the place from which 
I come.” 

“ He appeared to know you.” 

“ I have occasionally put on the gloves with him.” 

“ What is his name ? 1 


1 MS. , John Thurtell”. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


There was one question which I was continually asking myself 
at this period, and which has more than once met the eyes of the 
reader who has followed me through the last chapter. “ What 
is truth ?” I had involved* myself imperceptibly in a dreary 
labyrinth of doubt, and, whichever way I turned, no reason- 
able prospect of extricating myself appeared. The means by 
which I had brought myself into this situation may be very 
briefly told ; I had inquired into many matters, in order that I 
might become wise, and I had read and pondered over the words 
of the wise, so called, till I had made myself master of the sum 
of human wisdom ; namely, that everything is enigmatical and 
that man is an enigma to himself ; thence the cry of “ What is 
truth ? ” I had ceased to believe in the truth of that in which 
I had hitherto trusted, and yet could find nothing in which I 
could put any fixed or deliberate belief. I was, indeed, in a 
labyrinth ! In what did I not doubt ? With respect to crime and 
virtue I was in doubt ; I doubted that the one was blameable and 
the other praiseworthy. Are not all things subjected to the law 
of necessity ? Assuredly ; time and chance govern all things : 
yet how can this be ? alas ! 

Then there was myself ; for what was I born ? Are not all 
things born to be forgotten ? That’s incomprehensible : yet is it 
not so ? Those butterflies fall and are forgotten. In what is man 
better than a butterfly ? All then is born to be forgotten. Ah ! 
that was a pang indeed ; ’tis at such a moment that a man wishes 
to die. The wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his shady arbours 
beside his sunny fishpools, saying so many fine things, wished to 
die, when he saw that not only all was vanity, but that he himself 
was vanity. Will a time come when all will be forgotten that now 
is beneath the sun ? If so, of what profit is life ? 

In truth, it was a sore vexation of spirit to me when I saw, as 
the wise man saw of old, that whatever I could hope to perform 
must necessarily be of very temporary duration ; and if so, why 
do it ? I said to myself, whatever name I can acquire, will it 
endure for eternity? scarcely so. A thousand years? Let me 


160 LA VENGRO. [ 1820 . 


see ! What have I done already ? I have learnt Welsh, and 
have translated the songs of Ab Gwilym, some ten thousand lines, 
into English rhyme ; I have also learnt Danish, and have rendered 
the old book of ballads cast by the tempest upon the beach 
into corresponding English metre. Good ! have I done enough 
already to secure myself a reputation of a thousand years ? No, 
no ! certainly not ; I have not the slightest ground for hoping that 
my translations from the Welsh and Danish will be read at the 
end of a thousand years. Well, but I am only eighteen, and I 
have not stated all that I have done ; I have learnt many other 
tongues, and have acquired some knowledge even of Hebrew and 
Arabic. Should I go on in this way till I am forty, I must then 
be very learned; and perhaps, among other things, may have 
translated the Talmud, and some of the great works of the 
Arabians. Pooh ! all this is mere learning and translation, and 
such will never secure immortality. Translation is at best an 
echo, and it must be a wonderful echo to be heard after the lapse 
of a thousand years. No ! all I have already done, and all I may 
yet do in the same way, I may reckon as nothing — mere pastime ; 
something else must be done. I must either write some grand 
original work, or conquer an empire ; the one just as easy as the 
other. But am I competent to do either? Yes, I think I am, 
under favourable circumstances. Yes, I think I may promise 
myself a reputation of a thousand years, if I do but give myself the 
necessary trouble. Well ! but what’s a thousand years after all, or 
twice a thousand years ? Woe is me ! I may just as well sit still. 

“Would I had never been born!” I said to myself; and a 
thought would occasionally intrude. But was I ever born? Is 
'not all that I see a lie — a deceitful phantom? Is there a world, 
and earth, and sky ? Berkeley’s doctrine — Spinosa’s doctrine ! 
Dear reader, I had at that time never read either Berkeley or 
Spinosa. I have still never read them; who are they, men of 
yesterday? “All is a lie — all a deceitful phantom,” are old 
cries ; they come naturally from the mouths of those, who, casting 
aside that choicest shield against madness, simplicity, would fain 
be wise as God, and can only know that they are naked. This 
doubting in the “universal all” is almost coeval with the human 
race : wisdom, so called, was early sought after. All is a lie — a 
deceitful phantom — was said when the world was yet young ; its 
surface, save a scanty portion, yet untrodden by human foot, and 
when the great tortoise yet crawled about. All is a lie, was the 
doctrine of Buddh ; and Buddh lived thirty centuries before the 
wise king of Jerusalem, who sat in his arbours, beside his sunny 


THE “RANTERS” 


161 


1820.] 


fishpools, saying many fine things, and, amongst others, “ There 
is nothing new under the sun ! ” 

One day, whilst I bent my way to the heath of which I have 
spoken on a former occasion, at the foot of the hills which formed 
it I came to a place where a wagon was standing, but without 
horses, the shafts resting on the ground ; there was a crowd about 
it, which extended half-way up the side of the neighbouring hill. 
The wagon was occupied by some half a dozen men ; some 
sitting, others standing. They were dressed in sober-coloured 
habiliments of black or brown, cut in plain and rather uncouth 
fashion, and partially white with dust ; their hair was short, and 
seemed to have been smoothed down by the application of the 
hand ; all were bare-headed — sitting or standing, all were bare- 
headed. One of them, a tall man, was speaking, as I arrived ; 
ere, however, I could distinguish what he was saying, he left off, 
and then there was a cry for a hymn “to the glory of God” — 
that was the word. It was a strange-sounding hymn, as well it 
might be, for everybody joined in it : there were voices of all 
kinds, of men, of women, and of children — of those who could 
sing and of those who could not — a thousand voices all joined, 
and all joined heartily ; no voice of all the multitude was silent 
save mine. The crowd consisted entirely of the lower classes, 
labourers, and mechanics, and their wives and children — dusty 
people, unwashed people, people of no account whatever, and yet 
they did not look a mob. And when that hymn was over — and 
here let me observe that, strange as it sounded, I have recalled 
that hymn to mind, and it has seemed to tingle in my ears on 
occasions when all that pomp and art could do to enhance 
religious solemnity was being done — in the Sistine Chapel, 
what time the papal band was in full play, and the choicest 
choristers of Italy poured forth their melodious tones in presence 
of Batuschca and his cardinals — on the ice of the Neva, what 
time the long train of stately priests, with their noble beards and 
their flowing robes of crimson and gold, with their ebony and 
ivory staves, stalked along, chanting their Sclavonian litanies in 
advance of the mighty Emperor of the North and his Priberjensky 
guard of giants, towards the orifice through which the river, run- 
ning below in its swiftness, is to receive the baptismal lymph — 
when the hymn was over, another man in the wagon proceeded 
to address the people ; he was a much younger man than the last 
speaker ; somewhat square built and about the middle height ; his 
face was rather broad, but expressive of much intelligence, and 

11 


1 62 


LA VENGRO. 


[1820. 


with a peculiar calm and serious look ; the accent in which he 
spoke indicated that he was not of these parts, but from some 
distant district. The subject of his address was faith, and how 
it could remove mountains. It was a plain address, without any 
attempt at ornament, and delivered in a tone which was neither 
loud nor vehement. The speaker was evidently not a practised 
one — once or twice he hesitated as if for words to express his 
meaning, but still he held on, talking of faith, and how it could 
remove mountains : “ It is the only thing we want, brethren, in 
this world ; if we have that, we are indeed rich, as it will enable 
us to do our duty under all circumstances, and to bear our lot, 
however hard it may be — and the lot of all mankind is hard — 
the lot of the poor is hard, brethren — and who knows more of the 
poor than I ? — a poor man myself, and the son of a poor man : 
but are the rich better off? not so, brethren, for God is just. 
The rich have their trials too : I am not rich myself, but I have 
seen the rich with careworn countenances ; I have also seen them 
in mad-houses ; from which you may learn, brethren, that the lot 
of all mankind is hard ; that is, till we lay hold of faith, which 
makes us comfortable under all circumstances ; whether we ride 
in gilded chariots or walk bare-footed in quest of bread ; whether 
we be ignorant, whether we be wise, — for riches and poverty, 
ignorance and wisdom, brethren, each brings with it its peculiar 
temptations. Well, under all these troubles, the thing which I 
would recommend you to seek is one and the same — faith ; faith 
in our Lord Jesus Christ, who made us and allotted to each his 
station. Each has something to do, brethren. Do it, therefore, 
but always in faith ; without faith we shall find ourselves some- 
times at fault; but with faith never — for faith can remove the 
difficulty. It will teach us to love life, brethren, when life is 
becoming bitter, and to prize the blessings around us ; for as every 
man has his cares, brethren, so has each man his blessings. It 
will likewise teach us not to love life over much, seeing that we 
must one day part with it. It will teach us to face death with 
resignation, and will preserve us from sinking amidst the swelling 
of the river Jordan.” 

And when he had concluded his address, he said : “ Let us 
sing a hymn, one composed by Master Charles Wesley — he was 
my countryman, brethren. 

‘Jesus, I cast my soul on Thee, 

Mighty and merciful to save ; 

Thou shalt to death go down with me 

And lay me gently in the grave. 


FAREWELL , BROTHER! 


163 


1820.] 


This body then shall rest in hope, 

This body which the worms destroy ; 

For Thou shalt surely raise me up, 

To glorious life and endless joy.’ ” 

Farewell, preacher with the plain coat, and the calm, serious 
look ! I saw thee once again, and that was lately — only the other 
day. It was near a fishing hamlet, by the sea side, that I saw 
the preacher again. He stood on the top of a steep monticle, 
used by pilots as a look-out for vessels approaching that coast, 
a dangerous one, abounding in rocks and quicksands. There he 
stood on the monticle, preaching to weather-worn fishermen and 
mariners gathered below upon the sand. “Who is he?” said I 
to an old fisherman, who stood beside me with a book of hymns 
in his hand ; but the old man put his hand to his lips, and that 
was the only answer I received. Not a sound was heard but the 
voice of the preacher and the roaring of the waves ; but the voice 
was heard loud above the roaring of the sea, for the preacher now 
spoke with power, and his voice was not that of one who hesitates. 
There he stood — no longer a young man, for his black locks were 
become gray, even like my own ; but there was the intelligent face, 
and the calm, serious look which had struck me of yore. There 
stood the preacher, one of those men — and, thank God, their 
number is not few — who, animated by the spirit of Christ, amidst 
much poverty, and, alas ! much contempt, persist in carrying 
the light of the Gospel amidst the dark parishes of what, but for 
their instrumentality, would scarcely be Christian England. I 
would have waited till he had concluded, in order that I might 
speak to him and endeavour to bring back the ancient scene to 
his recollection, but suddenly a man came hurrying towards the 
monticle, mounted on a speedy horse, and holding by the bridle 
one yet more speedy, and he whispered to me : “ Why loiterest 
thou here? — knowest thou not all that is to be done before 
midnight?” and he flung me the bridle; and I mounted on the 
horse of great speed, and I followed the other, who had already 
galloped off. And as I departed, I waved my hand to him on the 
monticle, and I shouted, “ Farewell, brother ! the seed came up at 
last, after a long period ! ” and then I gave the speedy horse his 
way, and leaning over the shoulder of the galloping horse, I said : 
“ Would that my life had been like his — even like that man’s ! ” 

I now wandered along the heath, till I came to a place where, 
beside a thick furze, sat a man, his eyes fixed intently on the red 
ball of the setting sun. 

“That’s not you, Jasper?” 


164 


LA VENGRO. 


[1820. 


“ Indeed, brother ! ” 

“ I’ve not seen you for years.” 

“How should you, brother?” 

“ What brings you here ? ” 

“The fight, brother.” 

“ Where are the tents ? ” 

“On the old spot, brother.” 

“ Any news since we parted ? ’* 

“Two deaths, brother.” 

“ Who are dead, Jasper ? ” 

“ Father and mother, brother.” 

“ Where did they die ? ” 

“ Where they were sent, brother.” 

“ And Mrs. Herne ? ” 

“She’s alive, brother.” 

“ Where is she now ? ” 

“In Yorkshire, brother.” 

“What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?” said I, as 
I sat down beside him. 

“My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in 
the old song of Pharaoh, which I have heard my grandam sing : — 

‘ Cana marel o manus chivios ande puv, 

Ta rovel pa leste o chavo ta romi ’. 

When a man dies, he is cast into the earth, and his wife and child 
sorrow over him. If he has neither wife nor child, then his 
father and mother, I suppose; and if he is quite alone in the 
world, why, then, he is cast into the earth, and there is an end of 
the matter.” 

“ And do you think that is the end of a man ? ” 

“ There’s an end of him, brother, more’s the pity.” 

“ Why do you say so ? ” 

“ Life is sweet, brother.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” 

“Think so! There’s night and day, brother, both sweet 
things; sun, moon and stars, brother, all sweet things; there’s 
likewise the wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who 
would wish to die ? ” 

“ I would wish to die ” 

“You talk like a gorgio — which is the same as talking like a 
fool — were you a Rommany Chal you would talk wiser. Wish to 
die, indeed ! A Rommany Chal would wish to live for ever ! ” 
“In sickness, Jasper?” 


1 8m] 


EGYPTIAN ETHICS. 


165 


“ There’s the sun and stars, brother.” 

“ In blindness, Jasper?” 

“There’s the wind on the heath, brother; if I could only 
feel that, I would gladly live for ever. Dosta, we’ll now go to the 
tents and put on the gloves ; and I’ll try to make you feel what 
a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother ! ” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


How for everything there is a time and a season, and then how 
does the glory of a thing pass from it, even like the flower of the 
grass ! This is a truism, but it is one of those which are continu- 
ally forcing themselves upon the mind. Many years have not 
passed over my head, yet during those which I can call to remem- 
brance, how many things have I seen flourish, pass away, and 
become forgotten, except by myself, who, in spite of all my 
endeavours, never can forget anything. I have known the time 
when a pugilistic encounter between two noted champions was 
almost considered in the light of a national affair ; when tens of 
thousands of individuals, high and low, meditated and brooded 
upon it, the first thing in the morning and the last at night, until 
the great event was decided. But the time is past, and many 
people will say, thank God that it is ; all I have to say is, that 
the French still live on the other side of the water, and are still 
casting their eyes hitherward — and that in the days of pugilism 
it was no vain boast to say, that one Englishman was a match for 
two of t’other race ; at present it would be a vain boast to say so, 
for these are not the days of pugilism. 

But those to which the course of my narrative has carried me 
were the days of pugilism ; it was then at its height, and conse- 
quently near its decline, for corruption had crept into the ring ; 
and how many things, states and sects among the rest, owe their 
decline to this cause ! But what a bold and vigorous aspect 
pugilism wore at that time ! and the great battle was just then 
coming off ; the day had been decided upon, and the spot — a 
convenient distance from the old town ; and to the old town were 
now flocking the bruisers of England, men of tremendous renown. 
Let no one sneer at the bruisers of England — what were the 
gladiators of Rome, or the bull-fighters of Spain, in its palmiest 
days, compared to England’s bruisers ? Pity that ever corruption 
should have crept in amongst them — but of that I wish not to 
talk ; let us still hope that a spark of the old religion, of which 
they were the priests, still lingers in the breasts of Englishmen. 


1820.] THE BRUISERS OF ENGLAND. 167 


There they come, the bruisers, from far London, or from wher- 
ever else they might chance to be at that time, to the great 
rendezvous in the old city ; some came one way, some another : 
some of tip-top reputation came with peers in their chariots, for 
glory and fame are such fair things that even peers are proud to 
have those invested therewith by their sides ; others came in their 
own gigs, driving their own bits of blood, and I heard one say : 
“ I have driven through at a heat the whole hi miles, and only 
stopped to bait twice Oh, the blood-horses of old England ! 
but they too have had their day — for everything beneath the sun 
there is a season and a time. But the greater number come just 
as they can contrive ; on the tops of coaches, for example ; and 
amongst these there are fellows with dark sallow faces and 
sharp shining eyes ; and it is these that have planted rottenness 
in the core of pugilism, for they are Jews, and, true to their kind, 
have only base lucre in view. 

It was fierce old Cobbett, I think, who first said that the Jews 
first introduced bad faith amongst pugilists. He did not always 
speak the truth, but at any rate he spoke it when he made that 
observation. Strange people the Jews — endowed with every gift 
but one, and that the highest, genius divine, — genius which can 
alone make of men demigods, and elevate them above earth and 
what is earthy and what is grovelling ; without which a clever 
nation — and who more clever than the Jews? — may have Ram- 
bams in plenty, but never a Fielding nor a Shakespeare; a 
Rothschild and a Mendoza, yes — but never a Kean nor a Belcher. 

So the bruisers of England are come to be present at the grand 
fight speedily coming off ; there they are met in the precincts of 
the old town, near the Field of the Chapel, planted with tender 
saplings at the restoration of sporting Charles, which are now 
become venerable elms, as high as many a steeple ; there they 
are met at a fitting rendezvous, where a retired coachman, with 
one leg, keeps an hotel and a bowling-green. I think I now see 
them upon the bowling-green, the men of renown, amidst hundreds 
of people with no renown at all, who gaze upon them with timid 
wonder. Fame, after all, is a glorious thing, though it lasts only 
for a day. There’s Cribb, the champion of England, and perhaps 
the best man in England ; there he is, with his huge, massive 
figure, and face wonderfully like that of a lion. There is Belcher, 
the younger, not the mighty one, who is gone to his place, but the 
Teucer Belcher, the most scientific pugilist that ever entered a 
ring, only wanting strength to be, I won’t say what. He appears 
to walk before me now, as he did that evening, with his white hat, 


i68 


LA VENGRO. 


[1820. 


white greatcoat, thin, genteel figure, springy step, and keen, deter- 
mined eye. Crosses him — what a contrast ! — grim, savage Shelton, 
who has a civil word for nobody, and a hard blow for anybody — 
hard ! one blow, given with the proper play of his athletic arm, 
will unsense a giant. Yonder individual, who strolls about with 
his hands behind him, supporting his brown coat lappets, under- 
sized, and who looks anything but what he is, is the king of the 
light weights, so called, — Randall ! the terrible Randall, who has 
Irish blood in his veins ; not the better for that, nor the worse ; and 
not far from him is his last antagonist, Ned Turner, who, though 
beaten by him, still thinks himself as good a man, in which he is, 
perhaps, right, for it was a near thing ; and “ a better shentleman,” 
in which he is quite right, for he is a Welshman. But how shall 
I name them all ? they were there by dozens, and all tremendous 
in their way. There was Bulldog Hudson and fearless Scroggins, 
who beat the conqueror of Sam the Jew. There was Black 
Richmond — no, he was not there, but I knew him well ; he was 
the most dangerous of blacks, even with a broken thigh. There 
was Purcell, who could never conquer till all seemed over with 
him. There was — what ! shall I name thee last ? ay, why not ? 
I believe that thou art the last of all that strong family still above 
the sod, where mayst thou long continue — true piece of English 
stuff, Tom of Bedford — sharp as winter, kind as spring. 

Hail to thee, Tom of Bedford, or by whatever name it may 
please thee to be called, Spring or Winter. Hail to thee, six-foot 
Englishman of the brown eye, worthy to have carried a six-foot 
bow at Flodden, where England’s yeomen triumphed over Scot- 
land’s king, his clans and chivalry. Hail to thee, last of England’s 
bruisers, after all the many victories which thou hast achieved — 
true English victories, unbought by yellow gold ; need I recount 
them ? nay, nay ! they are already well known to fame — sufficient 
to say that Bristol’s Bull and Ireland’s Champion were vanquished 
by thee, and one mightier still, gold itself, thou didst overcome ; 
for gold itself strove in vain to deaden the power of thy arm ; and 
thus thou didst proceed till men left off challenging thee, the un- 
vanquishable, the incorruptible. ’Tis a treat to see thee, Tom of 
Bedford, in thy “ public ” in Holborn way, whither thou hast 
retired with thy well-earned bays. ’Tis Friday night, and nine 
by Holborn clock. There sits the yeoman at the end of his long 
room, surrounded by his friends : glasses are filled, and a song is 
the cry, and a song is sung well suited to the place ; it finds an 
echo in every heart— fists are clenched, arms are waved, and the 
portraits of the mighty fighting men of yore, Broughton and Slack 


THE “BATTLE” OP JULY 17. 


169 


1820.] 


and Ben, which adorn the walls, appear to smile grim approbation, 
whilst many a manly voice joins in the bold chorus : — 

“ Here’s a health to old honest John Bull, 

When he’s gone we shan’t find such another, 

And with hearts and with glasses brim full, 

We will drink to old England, his mother 

But the fight ! with respect to the fight, what shall I say ? 
Little can be said about it — it was soon over ; some said that the 
brave from town, who was reputed the best man of the two, and 
whose form was a perfect model of athletic beauty, allowed him- 
self, for lucre vile, to be vanquished by the massive champion 
with the flattened nose. One thing is certain, that the former 
was suddenly seen to sink to the earth before a blow of by no 
means extraordinary power. Time, time ! was called ; but there 
he lay upon the ground apparently senseless, and from thence he 
did not lift his head till several seconds after the umpires had de- 
clared his adversary victor. 

There were shouts ; indeed, there’s never a lack of shouts to 
celebrate a victory, however acquired ; but there was also much 
grinding of teeth, especially amongst the fighting men from town. 
“Tom has sold us,” said they, “sold us to the yokels; who 
would have thought it ? ” Then there was fresh grinding of 
teeth, and scowling brows were turned to the heaven ; but what 
is this ? is it possible, does the heaven scowl too ? why, only a 
quarter of an hour ago — but what may not happen in a quarter 
of an hour ? For many weeks the weather had been of the most 
glorious description, the eventful day, too, had dawned gloriously, 
and so it had continued till some two hours after noon ; the 
fight was then over ; and about that time I looked up— what a 
glorious sky of deep blue, and what a big, fierce sun swimming 
high above in the midst of that blue ; not a cloud — there had 
not been one for weeks — not a cloud to be seen, only in the far 
west, just on the horizon, something like the extremity of a black 
wing ; that was only a quarter of an hour ago, and now the whole 
northern side of the heaven is occupied by a huge black cloud, 
and the sun is only occasionally seen amidst masses of driving 
vapour ; what a change ! but another fight is at hand, and the 
pugilists are clearing the outer ring ; how their huge whips come 
crashing upon the heads of the yokels ; blood flows, more blood 
than in the fight : those blows are given with right good-will, 
those are not sham blows, whether of whip or fist ; it is with fist 
that grim Shelton strikes down the big yokel ; he is always 
dangerous, grim Shelton, but now particularly so, for he has lost 


LA VENGRO. 


176 


[1820. 


ten pounds betted on the brave who sold himself to the yokels ; 
but the outer ring is cleared ; and now the second fight com- 
mences ; it is between two champions of less renown than the 
others, but is perhaps not the worse on that account. A tall thin 
boy is fighting in the ring with a man somewhat under the middle 
size, with a frame of adamant ; that’s a gallant boy ! he’s a yokel, 
but he comes from Brummagem, and he does credit to his extraction ; 
but his adversary has a frame of adamant : in what a strange light 
they fight, but who can wonder, on looking at that frightful cloud 
usurping now one half of heaven, and at the sun struggling with 
sulphurous vapour ; the face of the boy, which is turned towards 
me, looks horrible in that light, but he is a brave boy, he strikes 
his foe on the forehead, and the report of the blow is like the 
sound of a hammer against a rock ; but there is a rush and a 
roar over head, a wild commotion, the tempest is beginning to 
break loose ; there’s wind and dust, a crash, rain and hail ; is it 
possible to fight amidst such a commotion ? yes ! the fight goes 
on ; again the boy strikes the man full on the brow, but it is of 
no use striking that man, his frame is of adamant. “ Boy, thy 
strength is beginning to give way, and thou art becoming confused; ” 
the man now goes to work, amidst rain and hail. “ Boy, thou 
wilt not hold out ten minutes longer against rain, hail, and the 
blows of such an antagonist.” 

And now the storm was at its height ; the black thunder- 
cloud had broken into many, which assumed the wildest shapes 
and the strangest colours, some of them unspeakably glorious ; 
the rain poured in a deluge, and more than one water-spout was 
seen at no great distance : an immense rabble is hurrying in one 
direction ; a multitude of men of all ranks, peers and yokels, 
prize-fighters and Jews, and the last came to plunder, and are 
now plundering amidst that wild confusion of hail and rain, men 
and horses, carts and carriages. But all hurry in one direction, 
through mud and mire ; there’s a town only three miles distant, 
which is soon reached, and soon filled, it will not contain one- 
third of that mighty rabble ; but there’s another town farther on 
— the good old city is farther on, only twelve miles ; what’s that ! 
who’ll stay here ? onward to the old town. 

Hurry skurry, a mixed multitude of men and horses, carts 
and carriages, all in the direction of the old town ; and, in the 
midst of all that mad chrong, at a moment when the rain gushes 
were coming down with particular fury, and the artillery of the 
sky was pealing as I had never heard it peal before, I felt some 
one seize me by the arm — I turned round and beheld Mr. Petul- 
engro 


t HURT ELL. 


1820.] 


ifi 


“ I can’t hear you, Mr. Petulengro,” said I ; for the thunder 
drowned the words which he appeared to be uttering. 

“ Dearginni,” I heard Mr. Petulengro say, “ it thundereth. 
I was asking, brother, whether you believe in dukkeripens ? ” 

“ I do not, Mr. Petulengro ; but this is strange weather to be 
asking me whether I believe in fortunes.” 

“ Grondinni,” said Mr. Petulengro, “ it haileth. I believe in 
dukkeripens, brother.” 

“ And who has more right,” said I, “ seeing that you live by 
them ? But this tempest is truly horrible.” 

“ Dearginni, grondinni ta villaminni ! It thundereth, it haileth, 
and also flameth,” said Mr. Petulengro. “ Look up there, 
brother ! ” 

I looked up. Connected with this tempest there was one 
feature to which I have already alluded — the wonderful colours 
of the clouds. Some were of vivid green ; others of the brightest 
orange ; others as black as pitch. The gypsy’s finger was pointed 
to a particular part of the sky. 

“ What do you see there, brother ? ” 

“ A strange kind of cloud.” 

“What does it look like, brother? ” 

“ Something like a stream of blood.” 

“ That cloud foreshoweth a bloody dukkeripen.” 

“ A bloody fortune ! ” said I. “ And whom may it betide ? ” 

“ Who knows ! ” said the gypsy. 

Down the way, dashing and splashing and scattering man, 
horse and cart to the left and right, came an open barouche, 
drawn by four smoking steeds, with postillions in scarlet jackets, 
and leather skull-caps. Two forms were conspicuous in it ; that 
of the successful bruiser and of his friend and backer, the sport- 
ing gentleman of my acquaintance. 

“ His ! ” said the gypsy, pointing to the latter, whose stern 
features wore a smile of triumph, as, probably recognising me in 
the crowd, he nodded in the direction of where I stood, as the 
barouche hurried by. 

There went the barouche, dashing through the rain gushes, 
and in it one whose boast it was that he was equal to “ either 
fortune ”. Many have heard of that man — many may be desirous 
of knowing yet more of him. I have nothing to do with that 
man’s after-life — he fulfilled his dukkeripen. “A bad, violent 
man ! ” Softly friend ; when thou wouldst speak harshly of the 
dead, remember that thou hast not yet fulfilled thy own duk- 
keripen ! 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


My father, as I have already informed the reader, had been en- 
dowed by nature with great corporeal strength ; indeed, I have 
been assured that, at the period of his prime, his figure had de- 
noted the possession of almost Herculean powers. The strongest 
forms, however, do not always endure the longest, the very excess 
of the noble and generous juices which they contain being the 
cause of their premature decay. But, be that as it may, the 
health of my father, some few years after his retirement from the 
service to the quiet of domestic life, underwent a considerable 
change ; his constitution appeared to be breaking up ; and he 
was subject to severe attacks from various disorders, with which, 
till then, he had been utterly unacquainted. He was, however, 
wont to rally, more or less, after his illnesses, and might still oc- 
casionally be seen taking his walk, with his cane in his hand, and 
accompanied by his dog, who sympathised entirely with him, 
pining as he pined, improving as he improved, and never leaving 
the house save in his company ; and in this manner matters went 
on for a considerable time, no very great apprehension with 
respect to my father’s state being raised either in my mother’s 
breast or my own. But, about six months after the period at 
which I have arrived in my last chapter, it came to pass that my 
father experienced a severer attack than on any previous occasion. 

He had the best medical advice ; but it was easy to see, from 
the looks of his doctors, that they entertained but slight hopes of 
his recovery. His sufferings were great, yet he invariably bore 
them with unshaken fortitude. There was one thing remarkable 
connected with his illness ; notwithstanding its severity, it never 
confined him to his bed. He was wont to sit in his little parlour, 
in his easy chair, dressed in a faded regimental coat, his dog at 
his feet, who would occasionally lift his head from the hearth-rug 
on which he lay, and look his master wistfully in the face. And 
thus my father spent the greater part of his time, sometimes in 
prayer, sometimes in meditation, and sometimes in reading the 
Scriptures. I frequently sat with him ; though, as I entertained a 

(172) 


1822.3 


THE DAY OF THE WILL. 


173 


great awe for my father, I used to feel rather ill at ease, when, as 
sometimes happened, I found myself alone with him. 

“ I wish to ask you a few questions,” said he to me, one day, 
after my mother had left the room. 

“ I will answer anything you may please to ask me, my dear 
father.” 

“ What have you been about lately ? ” 

“I have been occupied as usual, attending at the office at the 
appointed hours.” 

“And what do you do there?” 

“ Whatever I am ordered.” 

“ And nothing else ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! sometimes I read a book.” 

“ Connected with your profession ? ” 

“ Not always ; I have been lately reading Armenian ” 

“What’s that?” 

“ The language of a people whose country is a region on the 
other side of Asia Minor.” 

“ Well ! ” 

“A region abounding with mountains.” 

“ Well ! ” 

“ Amongst which is Mount Ararat.” 

“Well!” 

“Upon which, as the Bible informs us, the ark rested.” 

“ Well ! ” 

“ It is the language of the people of those regions.” 

“So you told me.” 

“ And I have been reading the Bible in their language.” 
“Well!” 

“ Or rather, I should say, in the ancient language of these 
people; from which I am told the modern Armenian differs 
considerably.” 

“ Well ! ” 

“As much as the Italian from the Latin.” 

“Well!” 

“ So I have been reading the Bible in ancient Armenian.” 
“You told me so before.” 

“ I found it a highly difficult language.” 

“Yes.” 

“Differing widely from the languages in general with which I 
am acquainted.” 

“Yes.” 

“Exhibiting, however, some features in common with them”. 


i74 


LA VENGRO. 


[1822. 


“Yes.” 

“And sometimes agreeing remarkably in words with a certain 
strange wild speech with which I became acquainted ” 

“Irish?” 

“ No, father, not Irish — with which I became acquainted by 
the greatest chance in the world.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But of which I need say nothing further at present, and 
which I should not have mentioned but for that fact.” 

“ Well ! ” 

“ Which I consider remarkable.” 

“Yes.” 

“ The Armenian is copious.” 

“Is it?” 

“ With an alphabet of thirty-nine letters, but it is harsh and 
guttural.” 

“Yes.” 

“Like the language of most mountainous people — the 
Armenians call it Haik.” 

“ Do they? ” 

“ And themselves, Haik, also ; they are a remarkable people, 
and, though their original habitation is the Mountain of Ararat, 
they are to be found, like the Jews, all over the world.” 

“ Well ! ” 

“ Well, father, that’s all I can tell you about the Haiks, or 
Armenians.” 

“ And what does it all amount to ? ” 

“Very little, father ; indeed, there is very little known about 
the Armenians ; their early history, in particular, is involved in 
considerable mystery.” 

“And, if you knew all that it was possible to know about 
them, to what would it amount ? to what earthly purpose could you 
turn it ? have you acquired any knowledge of your profession ? ” 

“ Very little, father.” 

“ Very little ! Have you acquired all in your power? ” 

“ I can’t say that I have, father.” 

“ And yet it was your duty to have done so. But I see how 
it is, you have shamefully misused your opportunities ; you are 
like one, who, sent into the field to labour, passes his time in 
flinging stones at the birds of heaven.” 

“ I would scorn to fling a stone at a bird, father.” 

“You know what I mean, and all too well, and this attempt 
to evade deserved reproof by feigned simplicity is quite in character 


ARMENIAN . 


175 


1822.] 


with your general behaviour. I have ever observed about you a 
want of frankness, which has distressed me ; you never speak of 
what you are about, your hopes, or your projects, but cover your- 
self with mystery. I never knew till the present moment that you 
were acquainted with Armenian.” 

“ Because you never asked me, father ; there’s nothing to 
conceal in the matter — I will tell you in a moment how I came to 

learn Armenian. A lady whom I met at one of Mrs. ’s 

parties took a fancy to me, and has done me the honour to allow 
me to go and see her sometimes. She is the widow of a rich 
clergyman, and on her husband’s death came to this place to live 
bringing her husband’s library with her. I soon found my way to 
it, and examined every book. Her husband must have been a 
learned man, for amongst much Greek and Hebrew I found 
several volumes in Armenian, or relating to the language.” 

“And why did you not tell me of this before?” 

“ Because you never questioned me; but, I repeat, there is 
nothing to conceal in the matter. The lady took a fancy to me, 
and, being fond of the arts, drew my portrait ; she said the 
expression of my countenance put her in mind of Alfieri’s Saul.” 

“ And do you still visit her?” 

“No, she soon grew tired of me, and told people that she 
found me very stupid; she gave me the Armenian books, 
however.” 

“ Saul,” said my father, musingly, “ Saul, I am afraid she was 
only too right there ; he disobeyed the commands of his master, 
and brought down on his head the vengeance of Heaven — he 
became a maniac, prophesied, and flung weapons about him.” 

“ He was, indeed, an awful character — I hope I shan’t turn 
out like him.” 

“God forbid!” said my father, solemnly; “but in many 
respects you are headstrong and disobedient like him. I placed 
you in a profession, and besought you to make yourself master of 
it, by giving it your undivided attention. This, however, you 
did not do, you know nothing of it, but tell me that you are 
acquainted with Armenian ; but what I dislike most is your want 
of candour — you are my son, but I know little of your real 
history ; you may know fifty things for what I am aware ; you may 
know how to shoe a horse, for what I am aware.” 

“Not only to shoe a horse, father, but to make horse-shoes.” 

“Perhaps so,” said my father; “and it only serves to prove 
what I was just saying, that I know little about you.” 

“ But you easily may, my dear father ; I will tell you anything 


176 


LA VENGRO. 


[1822. 


that you may wish to know — shall I inform you how I learnt to 
make horse-shoes ? ” 

“ No,” said my father ; “ as you kept it a secret so long, it 
may as well continue so still. Had you been a frank, open-hearted 
boy, like one I could name, you would have told me all about it 
of your own accord. But I now wish to ask you a serious question 
— what do you propose to do ? ” 

“To do, father ? ” 

“ Yes ! the time for which you were articled to your profession 
will soon be expired, and I shall be no more.” 

“ Do not talk so, my dear father, I have no doubt that you 
will soon be better.” 

“ Do not flatter yourself ; I feel that my days are numbered. 
I am soon going to my rest, and I have need of rest, for I am 
weary. There, there, don’t weep ! Tears will help me as little 
as they will you ; you have not yet answered my question. Tell 
me what you intend to do ? ” 

“ I really do not know what I shall do.” 

“The military pension which I enjoy will cease with my 
life. The property which I shall leave behind me will be barely 
sufficient for the maintenance of your mother respectably. I 
again ask you what you intend to do. Do you think you can 
support yourself by your Armenian or your other acquirements ? ” 

“ Alas ! I think little at all about it ; but I suppose I must 
push into the world, and make a good fight, as becomes the son 
of him who fought Big Ben : if I can’t succeed, and am driven to 
the worst, it is but dying ” 

“What do you mean by dying?” 

“ Leaving the world ; my loss would scarcely be felt. I have 
never held life in much value, and every one has a right to 
dispose as he thinks best of that which is his own.” 

“Ah! now I understand you; and well I know how and 
where you imbibed that horrible doctrine, and many similar ones 
which I have heard from your own mouth ; but I wish not to 
reproach you — I view in your conduct a punishment for my own 
sins, and I bow to the will of God. Few and evil have been my 
days upon the earth ; little have I done to which I can look back 
with satisfaction. It is true I have served my king fifty years, and 
I have fought with — Heaven forgive me, what was I about to say ! 
—but you mentioned the man’s name, and our minds willingly 
recall our ancient follies. Few and evil have been my days upon 
earth, I m, ' *av with Jacob of old, though I do not mean to say 
that my r hard as his ; he had many undutiful children, 


1823.] 


WAITING. 


177 


whilst I have only ; but I will not reproach you. I have 

also like him a son to whom I can look with hope, who may yet 
preserve my name when I am gone, so let me be thankful ; per- 
haps, after all, I have not lived in vain. Boy, when I am gone, 
look up to your brother, and may God bless you both. There, 
don’t weep ; but take the Bible, and read me something about 
the old man and his children.” 

My brother had now been absent for the space of three years. 
At first his letters had been frequent, and from them it appeared 
that he was following his profession in London with industry; 
they then became rather rare, and my father did not always 
communicate their contents. His last letter, however, had filled 
him and our whole little family with joy ; it was dated from Paris, 
and the writer was evidently in high spirits. After describing in 
eloquent terms the beauties and gaieties of the French capital, 
he informed us how he had plenty of money, having copied a 
celebrated picture of one of the Italian masters for a Hungarian 
nobleman, for which he had received a large sum. “ He wishes 
me to go with him to Italy,” added he, “but I am fond of in- 
dependence ; and, if ever I visit old Rome, I will have no patrons 
near me to distract my attention.” But six months had now 
elapsed from the date of this letter, and we had heard no further 
intelligence of my brother. My father’s complaint increased ; the 
gout, his principal enemy, occasionally mounted high up in his 
system, and we had considerable difficulty in keeping it from the 
stomach, where it generally proves fatal. I now devoted almost 
the whole of my time to my father, on whom his faithful partner 
also lavished every attention and care. I read the Bible to him, 
which was his chief delight; and also occasionally such other 
books as I thought might prove entertaining to him. His spirits 
were generally rather depressed. The absence of my brother 
seemed to prey upon his mind. “ I wish he were here/’ he 
would frequently exclaim, “ I can’t imagine what has become of 
him ; I trust, however, he will arrive in time.” He still sometimes 
rallied, and I took advantage of those moments of comparative 
ease to question him upon the events of his early life. My 
attentions tQ him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, 
fatherly, and unreserved. I had never known my father so 
entertaining as at these moments, when his life was but too 
evidently drawing to a close. I had no idea that he knew and 
had seen so much ; my respect for him increased, and I looked 
uponhim almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in general 
highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest 

12 


178 


LA VENGRO. 


[1823. 


stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with 
some of the brightest glories of our native land. He had 
frequently conversed — almost on terms of familiarity — with good 
old George. He had known the conqueror of Tippoo Saib ; and 
was the friend of Townshend, who, when Wolfe fell, led the 
British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of Montcalm. 
“ Pity,” he added, “ that when old — old as I am now — he should 
have driven his own son mad by robbing him of his plighted 
bride ; but so it was ; he married his son’s bride. I saw him lead 
her to the altar ; if ever there was an angelic countenance, it was 
that girl’s ; she was almost too fair to be one of the daughters of 
women. Is there anything, boy, that you would wish to ask me? 
now is the time.” 

“Yes, father; there is one about whom I would fain question 
you.” 

" Who is it ? shall I tell you about Elliot ? ” 

“ No, father, not about Elliot ; but pray don’t be angry ; I 
should like to know something about Big Ben.” 

“You are a strange lad,” said my father; “and, though of 
late I have begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than 
heretofore, there is still much about you that I do not understand. 
Why do you bring up that name ? Don’t you know that it is one 
of my temptations ? You wish to know something about him. 
Well ! I will oblige you this once, and then farewell to such 
vanities — something about him. I will tell you — his — skin when 
he flung off his clothes — and he had a particular knack in doing 
so — his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for 

combat ; and when he fought, he stood so if I remember 

right — his skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad. 
Oh me ! I wish my elder son was here.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


At last my brother arrived ; he looked pale and unwell ; I met 
him at the door. “ You have been long absent ! ” said I. 

“Yes,” said he, “perhaps too long; but how is my father?” 

“ Very poorly,” said I, “ he has had a fresh attack ; but where 
have you been of late ? ” 

“ Far and wide,” said my brother ; “ but I can’t tell you any- 
thing now, I must go to my father. It was only by chance that 
I heard of his illness.” 

“ Stay a moment,” said I. “Is the world such a fine place 
as you supposed it to be before you went away ? ” 

“ Not quite,” said my brother, “ not quite ; indeed I wish — 
but ask me no questions now, I must hasten to my father.” 

There was another question on my tongue, but I forebore ; 
for the eyes of the young man were full of tears. I pointed with 
my finger, and the young man hastened past me to the arms of 
his father. 

I forebore to ask my brother whether he had been to old 
Rome. 




What passed between my father and brother I do not know ; 
the interview, no doubt, was tender enough, for they tenderly 
loved each other ; but my brother’s arrival did not produce the 
beneficial effect upon my father which I at first hoped it would ; 
it did not even appear to have raised his spirits. He was com- 
posed enough, however. “ I ought to be grateful,” said he; “I 
wished to see my son, and God has granted me my wish ; what 
more have I to do now than to bless my little family and go? ” 

My father’s end was evidently at hand. 

And did I shed no tears? did I breathe no sighs? did I 
never wring my hands at this period ? the reader will perhaps be 
asking. Whatever I did and thought is best known to God and 
myself ; but it will be as well to observe, that it is possible to feel 
deeply and yet make no outward sign. 

And now for the closing scene. 

At the dead hour of night, it might be about two, I was 
awakened from sleep by a cry which sounded from the room 


So 


LA VENGRO. 


[28TH Feb., ’24. 


immediately below that in which I slept. I knew the cry, it was 
the cry of my mother, and I also knew its import ; yet I made no 
effort to rise, for I was for the moment paralysed. Again the cry 
sounded, yet still I lay motionless — the stupidity of horror was 
upon me. A third time, and it was then that, by a violent effort 
bursting the spell which appeared to bind me, I sprang from the 
bed and rushed downstairs. My mother was running wildly 
about the room ; she had awoke and found my father senseless in 
the bed by her side. I essayed to raise him, and after a few 
efforts supported him in the bed in a sitting posture. My 
brother now rushed in, and snatching up a light that was burning, 
he held it to my father’s face. “The surgeon, the surgeon ! ” he 
cried ; then dropping the light, he ran out of the room followed 
by my mother ; I remained alone, supporting the senseless form 
of my father ; the light had been extinguished by the fall, and an 
almost total darkness reigned in the room. The form pressed 
heavily against my bosom — at last methought it moved. Yes, I 
was right, there was a heaving of the breast, and then a gasping. 
Were those words which I heard? Yes, they were words, low 
and indistinct at first, and then audible. The mind of the dying 
man was reverting to former scenes. I heard him mention names 
which I had often heard him mention before. It was an awful 
moment ; I felt stupefied, but I still contrived to support my 
dying father. There was a pause, again my father spoke : I heard 
him speak of Minden, and of Meredith, the old Minden sergeant, 
and then he uttered another name, which at one period of his life 

was much on his lips, the name of but this is a solemn moment ! 

There was a deep gasp : I shook, and thought all was over ; but 
I was mistaken — my father moved and revived for a moment ; 
he supported himself in bed without my assistance. I make no 
doubt that for a moment he was perfectly sensible, and it was 
then that, clasping his hands, he uttered another name clearly, 
distinctly — it was the name of Christ. With that name upon his 
lips, the brave old soldier sank back upon my bosom, and, with 
his hands still clasped, yielded up his soul. 


[End of Vo L /., 1851.] 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


“ One-and-ninepence, sir, or the things which you have brought 
with you will be taken away from you ! ” 

Such were the first words which greeted my ears, one damp, 
misty morning in March, as I dismounted from the top of a coach 
in the yard of a London inn. 

I turned round, for I felt that the words were addressed to 
myself. Plenty of people were in the yard — porters, passengers, 
coachmen, ostlers, and others, who appeared to be intent on 
anything but myself, with the exception of one individual whose 
business appeared to lie with me, and who now confronted me at 
the distance of about two yards. 

I looked hard at the man — and a queer kind of individual he 
was to look at — a rakish figure, about thirty, and of the middle 
size, dressed in a coat smartly cut, but threadbare, very tight 
pantaloons of blue stuff, tied at the ankles, dirty white stockings, 
and thin shoes, like those of a dancing-master ; his features were 
not ugly, but rather haggard, and he appeared to owe his com- 
plexion less to nature than carmine ; in fact, in every respect, a 
very queer figure. 

** One-and-ninepence, sir, or your things will be taken away 
from you ! ” he said, in a kind of lisping tone, coming yet nearer 
to me. 

I still remained staring fixedly at him, but never a word 
answered. Our eyes met ; whereupon he suddenly lost the easy 
impudent air which he before wore. He glanced, for a moment, 
at my fist, which I had by this time clenched, and his features 
became yet more haggard ; he faltered ; a fresh “ one-and-nine- 
pence ” which he was about to utter, died on his lips ; he shrank 
back, disappeared behind a coach, and I saw no more of him. 

“ One-and-ninepence, or my things will be taken away from 
me ! ” said I to myself, musingly, as I followed the porter to whom 
I had delivered my scanty baggage ; “am I to expect many of 
these greetings in the big world ? Well, never mind ; I think I 
know the counter-sign ! ” And I clenched my fist yet harder 
than before. 


LA VENGRO. 


[2ND April, ’24 


182 


So I followed the porter through the streets of Dondon, to a 
lodging which had been prepared for me by an acquaintance. 
The morning, as I have before said, was gloomy, and the streets 
through which I passed were dank and filthy ; the people, also, 
looked dank and filthy ; and so, probably, did I, for the night 
had been rainy, and I had come upwards of a hundred miles on 
the top of a coach ; my heart had sunk within me by the time we 
reached a dark narrow street in which was the lodging. 

“ Cheer up, young man,” said the porter, “ we shall have a 
fine afternoon ! ” 

And presently I found myself in the lodging which had been 
prepared for me. It consisted of a small room, up two pair of 
stairs, in which I was to sit, and another still smaller above it, in 
which I was to sleep. I remember that I sat down, and looked 
disconsolate about me — everything seemed so cold and dingy. 
Yet how little is required to make a situation — however cheerless 
at first sight — cheerful and comfortable. The people of the 
house, who looked kindly upon me, lighted a fire in the dingy 
grate; and, then, what a change! — the dingy room seemed dingy 
no more ! Oh, the luxury of a cheerful fire after a chill night’s 
journey ! I drew near to the blazing grate, rubbed my hands 
and felt glad. 

And, when I had warmed myself, I turned to the table, on 
which, by this time, the people of the house had placed my 
breakfast ; and I ate and I drank ; and, as I ate and drank, I 
mused within myself, and my eyes were frequently directed to a 
small green box, which constituted part of my luggage, and which, 
with the rest of my things, stood in one corner of the room, till at 
last, leaving my breakfast unfinished, I rose, and, going to the box, 
unlocked it, and took out two or three bundles of papers tied 
with red tape, and, placing them on the table, I resumed my seat 
and my breakfast, my eyes intently fixed upon the bundles of 
papers all the time. 

And when I had drained the last cup of tea out of a dingy 
teapot, and ate the last slice of the dingy loaf, I untied one of 
the bundles, and proceeded to look over the papers, which were 
closely written over in a singular hand, and I read for some time, 
till at last I said to myself, “ It will do ”. And then I looked at 
the other bundle for some time, without untying it ; and at last I 
said, “It will do also”. And then I turned to the fire, and, 
putting my feet against the sides of the grate, I leaned back on 
my chair, and, with my eyes upon the fire, fell into deep thought. 

And there I continued in thought before the fire, until my 


1824.] 


THE BIG WORLD:' 


183 


eyes closed, and I fell asleep ; which was not to be wondered at, 
after the fatigue and cold which I had lately undergone on the 
coach-top ; and, in my sleep, I imagined myself still there, amidst 
darkness and rain, hurrying now over wild heaths, and now along 
roads overhung with thick and umbrageous trees, and sometimes 
methought I heard the horn of the guard, and sometimes the 
voice of the coachman, now chiding, now encouraging his horses, 
as they toiled through the deep and miry ways. At length a 
tremendous crack of a whip saluted the tympanum of my ear, 
and I started up broad awake, nearly oversetting the chair on 
which I reclined — and, lo ! I was in the dingy room before the 
fire, which was by this time half-extinguished. In my dream I 
had confounded the noise of the street with those of my night 
journey ; the crack which had aroused me I soon found proceeded 
from the whip of a carter, who, with many oaths, was flogging his 
team below the window. 

Looking at a clock which stood upon the mantel-piece, I per- 
ceived that it was past eleven ; whereupon I said to myself, “ I am 
wasting my time foolishly and unprofitably, forgetting that I am 
now in the big world, without anything to depend upon save my 
own exertions ” ; and then I adjusted my dress, and, locking up 
the bundle of papers which I had not read, I tied up the other, 
and, taking it under my arm, I went down stairs ; and, after ask- 
ing a question or two of the people of the house, I sallied forth 
into the street with a determined look, though at heart I felt 
somewhat timorous at the idea of venturing out alone into the 
mazes of the mighty city, of which I had heard much, but of 
which, of my own knowledge, I knew nothing. 

I had, however, no great cause for anxiety in the present in- 
stance ; I easily found my way to the place which I was in quest 
of — one of the many new squares on the northern side of the 
metropolis, and which was scarcely ten minutes' walk from the 
street in which I had taken up my abode. Arriving before the 
door of a tolerably large house which bore a certain number, I 
stood still fora moment in a kind of trepidation, looking anxiously 
at the door ; I then slowly passed on till I came to the end of the 
square, where I stood still and pondered for awhile. Suddenly, 
however, like one who has formed a resolution, I clenched my 
right hand, flinging my hat somewhat on one side, and, turning 
back with haste to the door before which I had stopped, I sprang 
up the steps, and gave a loud rap, ringing at the same time the 
bell of the area. After the lapse of a minute the door was 
opened by a maid-servant of no yery cleanly or prepossessing 


184 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


appearance, of whom I demanded, in a tone of some hauteur, 
whether the master of the house was at home. Glancing for a 
moment at the white paper bundle beneath my arm, the handmaid 
made no reply in words, but, with a kind of toss of her head, flung 
the door open, standing on one side as if to let me enter. I did 
enter; and the handmaid, having opened another door on the 
right hand, went in, and said something which I could not hear; 
after a considerable pause, however, I heard the voice of a man 
say, “ Let him come in ” ; whereupon the handmaid, coming out, 
motioned me to enter, and, on my obeying, instantly closed the 
door behind me. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


There were two individuals in the room in which I now found 
myself; it was a small study, surrounded with bookcases, the 
window looking out upon the square. Of these individuals he 
who appeared to be the principal stood with his back to the fire- 
place. He was a tall, stout man, about sixty, dressed in a loose 
morning gown. The expression of his countenance would have 
been bluff but for a certain sinister glance, and his complexion 
might have been called rubicund but for a considerable tinge of 
bilious yellow. He eyed me askance as I entered. The other, 
a pale, shrivelled-looking person, sat at a table apparently engaged 
with an account-book ; he took no manner of notice of me, never 
once lifting his eyes from the page before him. 

“Well, sir, what is your pleasure?” said the big man, in a 
rough tone, as I stood there looking at him wistfully — as well I 
might — fol upon that man, at the time of which I am speaking, 
my principal, I may say my only, hopes rested. 

“ Sir,” said I, “ my name is so-and-so, and I am the bearer of 
a letter to you from Mr. so-and-so, an old friend and corres- 
pondent of yours.” 

The countenance of the big man instantly lost the suspicious 
and lowering expression which it had hitherto exhibited ; he strode 
forward and, seizing me by the hand, gave me a violent squeeze. 

“ My dear sir,” said he, “I am rejoiced to see you in London. 
I have been long anxious for the pleasure — we are old friends, 
though we have never before met Taggart ,” 1 said he to the 
man who sat at the desk, “ this is our excellent correspondent, the 
friend and pupil of our other excellent correspondent.” 

The pale, shrivelled-looking man slowly and deliberately 
raised his head from the account-book, and surveyed me for a 
moment or two ; not the slightest emotion was observable in his 
countenance. It appeared to me, however, that I could detect a 
droll twinkle in his eye ; his curiosity, if he had any, was soon 


1 MS . , “ Bartlett ”, 

(185) 


1 86 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


gratified ; he made me a kind of bow, pulled out a snuff-box, took 
a pinch of snuff, and again bent his head over the page. 

“And now, my dear sir,” said the big man, “pray sit down, 
and tell me the cause of your visit. I hope you intend to remain 
here a day or two.” 

“ More than that,” said I, “ I am come to take up my abode 
in London.” 

“ Glad to hear it; and what have you been about of late? got 
anything which will suit me ? Sir, I admire your style of writing, 
and your manner of thinking; and I am much obliged to my 
good friend and correspondent for sending me some of your 
productions. I inserted them all, and wished there had been 
more of them —quite original, sir, quite ; took with the public, 
especially the essay about the non-existence of anything. I don’t 
exactly agree with you, though ; I have my own peculiar ideas 
about matter — as you know, of course, from the book I have 
published. Nevertheless, a very pretty piece of speculative 
philosophy — no such thing as matter — impossible that there 
should be — ex nihilo—what is the Greek ? I have forgot — very 
pretty indeed ; very original.” 

“ I am afraid, sir, it was very wrong to write such trash, and 
yet more to allow it to be published.” 

“Trash! not at all; a very pretty piece of speculative philo- 
sophy ; of course you were wrong in saying there is no world. 
The world must exist, to have the shape of a pear ; and that the 
world is shaped like a pear, and not like an apple, as the fools of 
Oxford say, I have satisfactorily proved in my book. Now, if 
there were no world, what would become of my system ? But 
what do you propose to do in London ? ” 

“ Here is the letter, sir,” said I, “ of our good friend, which I 
have not yet given to you ; I believe it will explain to you the 
circumstances under which I come.” 

He took the letter, and perused it with attention. “Hem!” 
said he, with a somewhat altered manner, “ my friend tells me that 
you are come up to London with the view of turning your literary 
talents to account, and desires me to assist you in my capacity of 
publisher in bringing forth two or three works which you have 
prepared. My good friend is perhaps not aware that for some 
time past I have given up publishing — was obliged to do so — had 
many severe losses — do nothing at present in that line, save 
sending out the Magazine once a month ; and, between ourselves, 
am thinking of disposing of that — wish to retire — high time at my 
age — so you see — ” 


i 82 4 .] 


SIR RICHARD. 


187 


“ I am very sorry, sir, to hear that you cannot assist me ” (and 
I remember that I felt very nervous) ; “I had hoped ” 

“A losing trade, I assure you, sir; literature is a drug. 
Taggart, what o’clock is it?” 

“Well, sir!” said I, rising, “as you cannot assist me, I will 
now take my leave ; I thank you sincerely for your kind reception, 
and will trouble you no longer.” 

“ Oh, don’t go. I wish to have some further conversation with 
you ; and perhaps I may hit upon some plan to benefit you. I 
honour merit, and always make a point to encourage it when I 

can ; but Taggart, go to the bank, and tell them to dishonour 

the bill twelve months after date for thirty pounds which becomes 
due to-morrow. I am dissatisfied with that fellow who wrote the 
fairy tales, and intend to give him all the trouble in my power. 
Make haste.” 

Taggart did not appear to be in any particular haste. First 
of all, he took a pinch of snuff, then, rising from his chair, slowly 
and deliberately drew his wig, for he wore a wig of a brown colour, 
rather more over his forehead than it had previously been, buttoned 
his coat, and, taking his hat, and an umbrella which stood in a 
corner, made me a low bow, and quitted the room. 

“ Well, sir, where were we ? Oh, I remember, we were talking 
about merit. Sir, I always wish to encourage merit, especially 
when it comes so highly recommended as in the present instance. 
Sir, my good friend and correspondent speaks of you in the 
highest terms. Sir, I honour my good friend, and have the 
highest respect for his opinion in all matters connected with 
literature — rather eccentric though. Sir, my good friend has 
done my periodical more good and more harm than all the rest 
of my correspondents. Sir, I shall never forget the sensation 
caused by the appearance of his article about a certain personage 
whom he proved — and I think satisfactorily — to have been a 

legionary soldier — rather startling, was it not? The S 1 of 

the world a common soldier, in a marching regiment ! — original, 
but startling; sir, I honour my good friend.” 

“ So you have renounced publishing, sir,” said I, “with the 
exception of the Magazine ? ” 

“ Why, yes ; except now and then, under the rose ; the old 
coachman, you know, likes to hear the whip. Indeed, at the present 
moment, I am thinking of starting a Review on an entirely new and 
original principle ; and it just struck me that you might be of high 
utility in the undertaking — what do you think of the matter?” 

1 MS., “ Saviour”. 


1 88 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


“ I should be happy, sir, to render you any assistance, but I 
am afraid the employment you propose requires other qualifica- 
tions than I possess ; however, I can make the essay. My chief 
intention in coming to London was to lay before the world what 

I had prepared ; and I had hoped by your assistance ” 

“ Ah ! I see, ambition ! Ambition is a very pretty thing ; but, 
sir, we must walk before we run, according to the old saying — 
what is that you have got under your arm ? ” 

“ One of the works to which I was alluding ; the one, indeed, 
which I am most anxious to lay before the world, as I hope to 
derive from it both profit and reputation.” 

“ Indeed ! what do you call it ? ” 

“ Ancient songs of Denmark, heroic and romantic, translated 
by myself, with notes philological, critical and historical.” 

“ Then, sir, I assure you that your time and labour have been 
entirely flung away; nobody would read your ballads, if you 
were to give them to the world to-morrow.” 

“ I am sure, sir, that you would say otherwise if you would 
permit me to read one to you ; ” and, without waiting for the 
answer of the big man, nor indeed so much as looking at him, 
to see whether he was inclined or not to hear me, I undid my 
manuscript, and with a voice trembling with eagerness, I read to 
the following effect : — 

Buckshank bold and Elfinstone, 

And more than I can mention here, 

They caused to be built so stout a ship, 

And unto Iceland they would steer. 

They launched the ship upon the main, 

Which bellowed like a wrathful bear ; 

Down to the bottom the vessel sank, 

A laidly Trold has dragged it there. 

Down to the bottom sank young Roland, 

And round about he groped awhile ; 

Until he found the path which led 
Unto the bower of Ellenlyle. 

“Stop!” said the publisher; “very pretty, indeed, and very 
original ; beats Scott hollow, and Percy too : but, sir, the day for 
these things is gone by ; nobody at present cares for Percy, nor 
for Scott, either, save as a novelist ; sorry to discourage merit, sir, 
but what can I do ? What else have you got ? ” 

“ The songs of Ab Gwilym, the Welsh bard, also translated by 
piyself, with notes critical, philological and historical.” 


i82 4 J 


PHILIPPICS. 


I89 


“ Pass on — what else ? ” 

“ Nothing else,” said I, folding up my manuscript with a sigh, 
“ unless it be a romance in the German style ; on which, I confess, 
I set very little value.” 

“Wild?” 

“ Yes, sir, very wild.” 

“ Like the Miller of the Black Valley ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, very much like the Miller of the Black Valley.” 

“ Well, that’s better,” said the publisher ; “ and yet, I don’t 
know, I question whether any one at present cares for the miller 
himself. No, sir, the time for those things is also gone by ; 
German, at present, is a drug; and, between ourselves, nobody 
has contributed to make it so more than my good friend and 
correspondent; but, sir, I see you are a young gentleman of 
infinite merit, and I always wish to encourage merit. Don’t 
you think you could write a series of evangelical tales?” 

“ Evangelical tales, sir ? ” 

“Yes, sir, evangelical novels.” 

“ Something in the style of Herder?” 

“ Herder is a drug, sir ; nobody cares for Herder — thanks to 
my good friend. Sir, I have in yon drawer a hundred pages 
about Herder, which I dare not insert in my periodical ; it would 
sink it, sir. No, sir, something in the style of the Dairyman's 
Daughter.” 

“ I never heard of the work till the present moment.” 

“Then, sir, procure it by all means. Sir, I could afford as 
much as ten pounds for a well-written tale in the style of the 
Dairyman s Daughter ; that is the kind of literature, sir, that 
sells at the present day ! It is not the Miller of the Black Valley — 
no, sir, nor Herder either, that will suit the present taste; the 
evangelical body is becoming very strong, sir — the canting 
scoundrels ” 

“But, sir, surely you would not pander to a scoundrelly 
taste ? ” 

“ Then, sir, I must give up business altogether. Sir, I have a 
great respect for the goddess Reason — an infinite respect, sir; 
indeed, in my time, I have made a great many sacrifices for her ; 
but, sir, I cannot altogether ruin myself for the goddess Reason. 
Sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as is well known ; but I must also 
be a friend to my own family. It is with the view of providing 
for a son of mine that I am about to start the Review of which I 
was speaking. He has taken it into his head to marry, sir, and I 
must do something for him, for he can do but little for himself. 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


190 


Well, sir, I am a friend to Liberty, as I said before, and likewise a 
friend to Reason ; but I tell you frankly that the Review which I 
intend to get up under the rose, and present him with when it is 
established, will be conducted on Oxford principles.” 1 

“ Orthodox principles, I suppose you mean, sir ? ” 

“I do, sir; I am no linguist, but I believe the words are 
synonymous.” 

Much more conversation passed between us, and it was agreed 
that I should become a contributor to the Oxford Review. I 
stipulated, however, that, as I knew little of politics, and cared 
less, no other articles should be required from me than such as 
were connected with belles-lettres and philology ; to this the big 
man readily assented. “Nothing will be required from you,” 
said he, “ but what you mention ; and now and then, perhaps, a 
paper on metaphysics. You understand German, and perhaps it 
would be desirable that you should review Kant ; and in a 
review of Kant, sir, you could introduce to advantage your 
peculiar notions about ex nihilo .” He then reverted to the subject 
of the Dairyman' s Daughter , which I promised to take into con- 
sideration. As I was going away, he invited me to dine with him 
on the ensuing Sunday. 

“ That’s a strange man ! ” said I to myself, after I had left the 
house, “ he is evidently very clever ; but I cannot say that I like him 
much, with his Oxford Reviews and Dairyman’s Daughters. But 
what can I do ? I am almost without a friend in the world. I 
wish I could find some one who would publish my ballads, or my 
songs of Ab Gwilym. In spite of what the big man says, I am 
convinced that, once published, they would bring me much fame 
and profit. But how is this ? — what a beautiful sun ! — the porter 
was right in saying that the day would clear up — I will now go to 
my dingy lodging, lock up my manuscripts and then take a stroll 
about the big city.” 


1 MS., “ High Tory principles 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


So I set out on my walk to see the wonders of the big city, and, as 
chance would have it, I directed my course to the east. The day, 
as I have already said, had become very fine, so that I saw the 
great city to advantage, and the wonders thereof, and much I 
admired all I saw ; and, amongst other things, the huge cathedral, 
standing so proudly on the most commanding ground in the big 
city ; and I looked up to the mighty dome, surmounted by a 
golden cross, and I said within myself : “ That dome must needs 
be the finest in the world ” ; and I gazed upon it till my eyes 
reeled, and my brain became dizzy, and I thought that the dome 
would fall and crush me ; and I shrank within myself, and struck 
yet deeper into the heart of the big city. 

“ O Cheapside ! Cheapside ! ” said I, as I advanced up that 
mighty thoroughfare, “ truly thou art a wonderful place for hurry, 
noise and riches ! Men talk of the bazaars of the East — I have 
never seen them, but I dare say that, compared with thee, 
they are poor places, silent places, abounding with empty boxes. 
O thou pride of London’s east ! — mighty mart of old renown ! — 
for thou art not a place of yesterday : long before the Roses 
red and white battled in fair England, thou didst exist — a place of 
throng and bustle — a place of gold and silver, perfumes and fine 
linen. Centuries ago thou couldst extort the praises even of the 
fiercest foes of England. Fierce bards of Wales, sworn foes of 
England, sang thy praises centuries ago ; and even the fiercest of 
them all, Red Julius himself, wild Glendower’s bard, had a word 
of praise for London’s “ Cheape,” for so the bards of Wales styled 
thee in their flowing odes. Then, if those who were not English, 
and hated England, and all connected therewith, had yet much 
to say in thy praise, when thou wast far inferior to what thou art 
now, why should true-born Englishmen, or those who call them- 
selves so, turn up their noses at thee, and scoff thee at the present 
day, as I believe they do ? But, let others do as they will, I, at 
least, who am not only an Englishman, but an East Englishman, 
will not turn up my nose at thee, but will praise and extol thee, 
calling thee mart of the world — a place of wonder and astonish- 
ment ! — and, were it right and fitting to wish that anything should 

(191) 


192 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


endure for ever, I would say prosperity to Cheapside, throughout 
all ages— may it be the world’s resort for merchandise, world 
without end. 

And when I had passed through the Cheape I entered another 
street, which led up a kind of ascent, and which proved to be the 
street of the Lombards, called so from the name of its founders ; 
and I walked rapidly up the street of the Lombards, neither 
looking to the right nor left, for it had no interest for me, though 
I had a kind of consciousness that mighty things were being 
transacted behind its walls ; but it wanted the throng, bustle and 
outward magnificence of the Cheape, and it had never been 
spoken of by “ ruddy bards ! ” And, when I had got to the end 
of the street of the Lombards, I stood still for some time, de- 
liberating within myself whether I should turn to the right or the 
left, or go straight forward, and at last I turned to the right, down 
a street of rapid descent, and presently found myself upon a bridge 
which traversed the river which runs by the big city. 

A strange kind of bridge it was; huge and massive, and 
seemingly of great antiquity. It had an arched back, like that of 
a hog, a high balustrade, and at either side, at intervals, were 
stone bowers bulking over the river, but open on the other side, 
and furnished with a semicircular bench. Though the bridge was 
wide — very wide — it was all too narrow for the concourse upon it. 
Thousands of human beings were pouring over the bridge. But 
what chiefly struck my attention was a double row of carts and 
wagons, the generality drawn by horses as large as elephants, each 
row striving hard in a different direction, and not unfrequently 
brought to a standstill. Oh the cracking of whips, the shouts and 
oaths of the carters, and the grating of wheels upon the enormous 
stones that formed the pavement ! In fact, there was a wild 
hurly-burly upon the bridge, which nearly deafened me. But, if 
upon the bridge there was a confusion, below it there was a con- 
fusion ten times confounded. The tide, which was fast ebbing, 
obstructed by the immense piers of the old bridge, poured beneath 
the arches with a fall of several feet, forming in the river below as 
many whirlpools as there were arches. Truly tremendous was the 
roar of the descending waters, and the bellow of the tremendous 
gulfs, which swallowed them for a time, and then cast them 
forth, foaming and frothing from their horrid wombs. Slowly 
advancing along the bridge, I came to the highest point, and 
there I stood still, close beside one of the stone bowers, in which, 
beside a fruitstall, sat an old woman, with a pan of charcoal at 
her feet, and a book in her hand, in which she appeared to be 
reading intently. There I stood, just above the principal arch, 


1824*3 


THE STROLL. 


193 


looking through the balustrade at the scene that presented itself — 
and such a scene ! Towards the left bank of the river, a forest of 
masts, thick and close, as far as the eye could reach ; spacious 
wharfs, surmounted with gigantic edifices ; and, far away, Caesar’s 
Castle, with its White Tower. To the right, another forest of 
masts, and a maze of buildings, from which, here and there, shot 
up to the sky chimneys taller than . Cleopatra’s Needle, vomit- 
ing forth huge wreaths of that black smoke which forms the 
canopy — occasionally a gorgeous one — of the more than Babel 
city. Stretching before me, the troubled breast of the mighty 
river, and, immediately below, the main whirlpool of the Thames 
—the Maelstrom of the bulwarks of the middle arch — a grisly 
pool, which, with its superabundance of horror, fascinated me. 
Who knows but I should have leapt into its depths? — I have 
heard of such things — but for a rather startling occurrence which 
broke the spell. As I stood upon the bridge, gazing into the jaws 
of the pool, a small boat shot suddenly through the arch beneath 
my feet. There were three persons in it ; an oarsman in the 
middle, whilst a man and a woman sat at the stern. I shall never 
forget the thrill of horror which went through me at this sudden 
apparition. What ! — a boat — a small boat — passing beneath that 
arch into yonder roaring gulf! Yes, yes, down through that awful 
water-way, with more than the swiftness of an arrow, shot the 
boat, or skiff, right into the jaws of the pool. A monstrous 
breaker curls over the prow — there is no hope; the boat is 
swamped, and all drowned in that strangling vortex. No ! the 
boat, which appeared to have the buoyancy of a feather, skipped 
over the threatening horror, and the next moment was out of 
danger, the boatman — a true boatman of Cockaigne that — 
elevating one of his sculls in sign of triumph, the man hallooing, 
and the woman, a true Englishwoman that — of a certain class — 
waving her shawl. Whether any one observed them save myself, 
or whether the feat was a common one, I know not ; but nobody 
appeared to take any notice of them. As for myself, I was so 
excited, that I strove to clamber up the balustrade of the bridge, 
in order to obtain a better view of the daring adventurers. Before 
I could accomplish my design, however, I felt myself seized by the 
body, and, turning my head, perceived the old fruit-woman, who 
was clinging to me. 

“ Nay, dear ! don’t — don’t ! ” said she. “ Don’t fling yourself 
over — perhaps you may have better luck next time ! ” 

“ I was not going to fling myself over,” said I, dropping from 
the balustrade ; “ how came you to think of such a thing ? ” 

x 3 


194 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


“ Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you 
might have had ill luck, and that you wished to make away with 
yourself.” 

“ 111 luck,” said I, going into the stone bower and sitting down. 
“ What do you mean ? ill luck in what ? ” 

“Why, no great harm, dear! cly-faking, perhaps.” 

“ Are you coming over me with dialects,” said I, “ speaking 
unto me in fashions I wot nothing of?” 

“ Nay, dear ! don’t look so strange with those eyes of your’n, 
nor talk so strangely ; I don’t understand you.” 

“ Nor I you ; what do you mean by cly-faking ? ” 

“ Lor, dear ! no harm ; only taking a handkerchief now and then.” 

“ Do you take me for a thief? ” 

“ Nay, dear ! don’t make use of bad language ; we never calls 
them thieves here, but prigs and fakers : to tell you the truth, dear, 
seeing you spring at that railing put me in mind of my own dear 
son, who is now at Bot’ny : when he had bad luck, he always used 
to talk of flinging himself over the bridge ; and, sure enough, 
when the traps were after him, he did fling himself into the river, 
but that was off the bank ; nevertheless, the traps pulled him out, 
and he is now suffering his sentence ; so you see you may speak 
out, if you have done anything in the harmless line, for I am my 
son’s own mother, I assure you.” 

“So you think there’s no harm in stealing?” 

“ No harm in the world, dear ! Do you think my own child 
would have been transported for it, if there had been any harm 
in it? and what’s more, would the blessed woman in the book 
here have written her life as she has done, and given it to the 
world, if there had been any harm in faking? She, too, was 
what they call a thief and a cut-purse ; ay, and was transported for 
it, like my dear son ; and do you think she would have told the 
world so, if there had been any harm in the thing? Oh, it is a 
comfort to me that the blessed woman was transported, and came 
back — for come back she did, and rich too — for it is an assurance 
to me that my dear son, who was transported too, will come back 
like her.” 

“ What was her name ? ” 

“ Her name, blessed Mary Flanders.” 

“Will you let me look at the book ? ” 

“Yes, dear, that I will, if you promise me not to run away 
with it.” 

I took the book from her hand; a short thick volume, at 
least a century old, bound with greasy black leather. I turned 
the yellow and dog’s-eared pages, reading here and there a 


LONDON BRIDGE. 


195 


1824.] 


sentence. Yes, and no mistake! His pen, his style, his spirit 
might be observed in every line of the uncouth-looking old 
volume — the air, the style, the spirit of the writer of the book 
which first taught me to read. I covered my face with my hand, 
and thought of my childhood. 

“This is a singular book,” said I at last; “but it does not 
appear to have been written to prove that thieving is no harm, 
but rather to show the terrible consequences of crime : it contains 
a deep moral.” 

“ A deep what, dear ? ” 

“A but no matter, I will give you a crown for this 

volume.” 

“ No, dear, I will not sell the volume for a crown.” 

“ I am poor,” said I ; “ but I will give you two silver crowns 
for your volume.” 

“ No, dear, I will not sell my volume for two silver crowns ; 
no, nor for the golden one in the king’s tower down there; 
without my book I should mope and pine, and perhaps fling 
myself into the river ; but I am glad you like it, which shows that 
I was right about you, after all ; you are one of our party, and 
you have a flash about that eye of yours which puts me just in 
mind of my dear son. No, dear, I won’t sell you my book ; but, 
if you like, you may have a peep into it whenever you come this 
way. I shall be glad to see you ; you are one of the right sort, 
for, if you had been a common one, you would have run away 
with the thing ; but you scorn such behaviour, and, as you are so 
flash of your money, though you say you are poor, you may give 
me a tanner to buy a little baccy with ; I love baccy, dear, more 
by token that it comes from the plantations to which the blessed 
woman was sent.” 

“What’s a tanner?” said I. 

“Lor! don’t you know, dear? Why, a tanner is sixpence; 
and, as you were talking just now about crowns, it will be as well 
to tell you that those of our trade never calls them crowns, but 
bulls ; but I am talking nonsense, just as if you did not know all 
that already, as well as myself ; you are only shamming — I’m no 
trap, dear, nor more was the blessed woman in the book. Thank 
you, dear — thank you for the tanner ; if I don’t spend it, I’ll keep 
it in remembrance of your sweet face. What, you are going? — 
well, first let me whisper a word to you. If you have any dies to 
sell at any time, I’ll buy them of you ; all safe with me ; I never 
’peach, and scorns a trap ; so now, dear, God bless you ! and 
give you good luck. Thank you for your pleasant company, and 
thank you for the tanner.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


“Tanner!” said I musingly, as I left the bridge; “Tanner! 
what can the man who cures raw skins by means of a preparation 
of oak bark and other materials have to do with the name which 
these fakers, as they call themselves, bestow on the smallest silver 
coin in these dominions ? Tanner ! I can’t trace the connection 
between the man of bark and the silver coin, unless journeymen 
tanners are in the habit of working for sixpence a day. But I 
have it,” I continued, flourishing my hat over my head, “ tanner, 
in this instance, is not an English word.” Is it not surprising 
that the language of Mr. Petulengro and of Tawno Chikno, is 
continually coming to my assistance whenever I appear to be at a 
nonplus with respect to the derivation of crabbed words ? I have 
made out crabbed words in yEschylus by means of the speech of 
Chikno and Petulengro, and even in my Biblical researches I 
have derived no slight assistance from it. It appears to be a 
kind of picklock, an open sesame, Tanner — Tawno ! the one is 
but a modification of the other; they were originally identical, 
and have still much the same signification. Tanner, in the 
language of the apple- woman, meaneth the smallest of English 
silver coins ; and Tawno, in the language of the Petulengros, 
though bestowed upon the biggest of the Romans, according to 
strict interpretation, signifieth a little child. 

So I left the bridge, retracing my steps for a considerable 
way, as I thought I had seen enough in the direction in which I 
had hitherto been wandering. 

[At last I came to a kind of open place from which three large 
streets branched, and in the middle of the place stood the figure 
of a man on horseback. It was admirably executed, and I stood 
still to survey it. 

“ Is that the statue of Cromwell ? ” said I to a drayman who 
was passing by, driving a team of that enormous breed of horses 
which had struck me on the bridge. 

“Who?” said the man in a surly tone, stopping short. 

“ Cromwell,” said I ; “ did you never hear of Oliver Cromwell ? ” 

“Oh, Oliver,” said the drayman, and a fine burst of intel- 
(196) 


1824.] 


CROMWELL'S STATUE. 


197 


ligence lighted up his broad English countenance. “To be 
sure I have ; yes, and read of him too. A fine fellow was Oliver, 
master, and the poor man’s friend. Whether that’s his figure, 
though, I can’t say. I hopes it be.” Then touching his hat to 
me, he followed his gigantic team, turning his head to look at the 
statue as he walked along. 

That man had he lived in Oliver’s time would have made a 
capital ironside, especially if mounted on one of those dray horses 
of his. I remained looking at the statue some time longer. 
Turning round, I perceived that I was close by a bookseller’s shop, 
into which, after deliberating a moment, I entered. An elderly, 
good-tempered looking man was standing behind the counter. 

“Have you the Dairyman s Daughter ?” I demanded. 

“Just one copy, young gentleman,” said the bookseller, 
rubbing his hands ; “ you are just in time, if you want one ; all 
the rest are sold.” 

“ What kind of character does it bear?” 

“ Excellent character, young gentleman ; great demand Tor it ; 
held in much esteem, especially by the Evangelical party.” 

“Who are the Evangelical party?” 

“ Excellent people, young gentleman, and excellent customers 
of mine,” rubbing his hands ; “ but setting that aside,” he 
continued gravely, “religious, good men.” 

“ Not a set of canting scoundrels ? ” 

The bookseller had placed a small book upon the counter; 
but he now suddenly snatched it up and returned it to the shelf ; 
then looking at me full in the face, he said, quietly : “ Young 
gentleman, I do not wish to be uncivil, but you had better leave 
the shop.” 

“ I beg your pardon if I have offended you, but I was merely 
repeating what I had heard.” 

“Whoever told you so must be either a bad, or a very 
ignorant, man.” 

“ I wish for the book.” 

“ You shall not have it at any price.” 

“Why not?” 

“ I have my reasons,” said the bookseller. 

“ Will you have the kindness,” said I, “ to tell me whose statue 
it is which stands there on horseback?” 

“ Charles the First.” 

“ And where is Cromwell’s ? ” 

“You may walk far enough about London, or, indeed, about 
England, before you will find a statue of Cromwell, young gentle- 
man.” 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


198 


“ Well, I could not help thinking that was his.” 

“ How came you to think so? ” 

“ I thought it would be just the place for a statue to the most 
illustrious Englishman. It is where I would place one were I 
prime minister.” 

“ Well, I do think that Charles would look better a little farther 
down, opposite to Whitehall, for example,” said the bookseller, 
rubbing his hands. “ Do you really wish to have the book ? ” 

“ Very much.” 

“Well, here it is; no price, young gentleman ; no price — can’t 
break my word — give the money, if you like, to the beggars in the 
street. Cromwell is the first Englishman who endeavoured to put 
all sects on an equality. Wouldn’t do, though — world too fond 
of humbug — still is. However, good day, young gentleman, and 
when you are prime minister, do not forget the two statues.”] 

I should say that I scarcely walked less than thirty miles about 
the big city on the day of my first arrival. Night came on, but 
still I was walking about, my eyes wide open, and admiring 
everything that presented itself to them. Everything was new to 
me, for everything is different in London from what it is elsewhere 
— the people, their language, the horses, the tout ensemble — even 
the stones of London are different from others — at least it appeared 
to me that I had never walked with the same ease and facility on 
the flag-stones of a country town as on those of London ; so I 
continued roving about till night came on, and then the splendour 
of some of the shops particularly struck me. “ A regular Arabian 
nights’ entertainment ! ” said I, as I looked into one on Cornhill, 
gorgeous with precious merchandise, and lighted up with lustres, 
the rays of which were reflected from a hundred mirrors. 

But, notwithstanding the excellence of the London pavement, 
I began about nine o’clock to feel myself thoroughly tired; 
painfully and slowly did I drag my feet along. I also felt very 
much in want of some refreshment, and I remembered that since 
breakfast I had taken nothing. I was now in the Strand, and, 
glancing about, I perceived that I was close by an hotel, which 
bore over the door the somewhat remarkable name of Holy 
Lands. Without a moment’s hesitation I entered a well-lighted 
passage, and, turning to the left, I found myself in a well-lighted 
coffee-room, with a well-dressed and frizzled waiter before me. 
“Bring me some claret,” said I, for I was rather faint than 
hungry, and I felt ashamed to give a humbler order to so well- 
dressed an individual. The waiter looked at me for a moment ; 
then, making a low bow, he bustled off, and I sat myself down in 


1824 .] 


THE “ HOLY LANDS”. 


igg 


the box nearest to the window. Presently the waiter returned, 
bearing beneath his left arm a long bottle, and between the 
fingers of his right hand two large purple glasses ; placing the 
latter on the table, he produced a cork-screw, drew the cork in a 
twinkling, set the bottle down before me with a bang, and then, 
standing still, appeared to watch my movements. You think I 
don’t know how to drink a glass of claret, thought I to myself. 
I’ll soon show you how we drink claret where I come from ; and, 
filling one of the glasses to the brim, I flickered it for a moment 
between my eyes and the lustre, and then held it to my nose; 
having given that organ full time to test the bouquet of the wine, 
I applied the glass to my lips, taking a large mouthful of the 
wine, which I swallowed slowly and by degrees, that the palate 
might likewise have an opportunity of performing its functions. 
A second mouthful I disposed of more summarily ; then, placing 
the empty glass upon the table, I fixed my eyes upon the bottle, 
and said — nothing ; whereupon the waiter, who had been observ- 
ing the whole process with considerable attention, made me a 
bow yet more low than before, and turning on his heel, retired 
with a smart chuck of his head, as much as to say, It is all right ; 
the young man is used to claret. 

And when the waiter had retired I took a second glass of the 
wine, which I found excellent ; and, observing a newspaper lying 
near me, I took it up and began perusing it. It has been 
observed somewhere that people who are in the habit of reading 
newspapers every day are not unfrequently struck with the excel- 
lence of style and general talent which they display. Now, if 
that be the case, how must I have been surprised, who was 
reading a newspaper for the first time, and that one of the best 
of the London Journals ! Yes, strange as it may seem, it was 
nevertheless true, that, up to the moment of which I am speaking, 
I had never read a newspaper of any description. I of course 
had frequently seen journals, and even handled them ; but, as 
for reading them, what were they to me? — I cared not for news. 
But here I was now with my claret before me, perusing, perhaps, 

the best of all the London Journals — it was not the and I was 

astonished : an entirely new field of literature appeared to be 
opened to my view. It was a discovery, but I confess rather an 
unpleasant one ; for I said to myself, if literary talent is so very 
common in London, that the journals, things which, as their very 
name denotes, are ephemeral, are written in a style like the article 
I have been perusing, how can I hope to distinguish myself in 
this big town, when, for the life of me, I don’t think I could 


200 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


write anything half so clever as what I have been reading. And 
then I laid down the paper, and fell into deep musing ; rousing 
myself from which, I took a glass of wine, and pouring out another, 
began musing again. What I have been reading, thought I, is 
certainly very clever and very talented ; but talent and cleverness 
I think I have heard some one say are very common-place things, 
only fitted for everyday occasions. I question whether the man 
who wrote the book I saw this day on the bridge was a clever 
man ; but, after all, was he not something much better ? I don’t 
think he could have written this article, but then he wrote the 
book which I saw on the bridge. Then, if he could not have 
written the article on which I now hold my forefinger — and I do 
not believe he could — why should I feel discouraged at the 
consciousness that I, too, could not write it ? I certainly could 
no more have written the article than he could ; but then, like 
him, though I would not compare myself to the man who wrote 
the book I saw upon the bridge, I think I could — and here I 
emptied the glass of claret — write something better. 

Thereupon I resumed the newspaper; and, as I was before 
struck with the fluency of style and the general talent which it 
displayed, I was now equally so with its common-placeness and 
want of originality on every subject ; and it was evident to me 
that, whatever advantage these newspaper-writers might have over 
me in some points, they had never studied the Welsh bards, 
translated Ksempe Viser, or been under the pupilage of Mr. 
Petulengro and Tawno Chikno. 

And as I sat conning the newspaper three individuals entered 
the room, and seated themselves in the box at the farther end of 
which I was. They were all three very well dressed ; two of 
them elderly gentlemen, the third a young man about my own 
age, or perhaps a year or two older. They called for coffee ; and, 
after two or three observations, the two eldest commenced a con- 
versation in French, which, however, though they spoke it fluently 
enough, I perceived at once was not their native language ; the 
young man, however, took no part in their conversation, and 
when they addressed a portion to him, which indeed was but 
rarely, merely replied by a monosyllable. I have never been a 
listener, and I paid but little heed to their discourse, nor indeed 
to themselves; as I occasionally looked up, however, I could 
perceive that the features of the young man, who chanced to be 
seated exactly opposite to me, wore an air of constraint and 
vexation. This circumstance caused me to observe him more 
particularly than I otherwise should have done : his features were 


i 82 4 -] 


FRANCIS ARDRY 


201 


handsome and prepossessing; he had dark brown hair, and a 
high-arched forehead. After the lapse of half an hour, the two 
elder individuals, having finished their coffee, called for the 
waiter, and then rose as if to depart, the young man, however, 
still remaining seated in the box. The others, having reached 
the door, turned round, and, finding that the youth did not follow 
them, one of them called to him with a tone of some authority; 
whereupon the young man rose, and, pronouncing half audibly 
the word “ botheration,” rose and followed them. I now observed 
that he was remarkably tall. All three left the house. In about 
ten minutes, finding nothing more worth reading in the news- 
paper, I laid it down, and though the claret was not yet exhausted, 
1 was thinking of betaking myself to my lodgings, and was about 
to call the waiter, when I heard a step in the passage, and in 
another moment, the tall young man entered the room, advanced 
to the same box, and, sitting down nearly opposite to me, again pro- 
nounced to himself, but more audibly than before, the same word. 

“ A troublesome world this, sir,” said I, looking at him. 

“ Yes,” said the young man, looking fixedly at me ; “ but 1 
am afraid we bring most of our troubles on our own heads — at 
least I can say so of myself,” he added, laughing. Then, after a 
pause, “ I beg pardon,” he said, “ but am I not addressing one 
of my own country ? ” 

“ Of what country are you ? ” said I. 

“ Ireland.” 

“I am not of your country, sir; but I have an infinite 
veneration for your country, as Strap said to the French soldier. 
Will you take a glass of wine? ” 

“Ah, de tout ?non coeur , as the parasite said to Gil Bias,” cried 
the young man, laughing. “ Here’s to our better acquaintance ! ” 

And better acquainted we soon became ; and I found that, in 
making the acquaintance of the young man, I had, indeed, made 
a valuable acquisition ; he was accomplished, highly connected, 
and bore the name of Francis Ardry. 1 Frank and ardent he was, 
and in a very little time had told me much that related to himself, 
and in return I communicated a general outline of my own history; 
he listened with profound attention, but laughed heartily when I 
told him some particulars of my visit in the morning to the 
publisher, whom he had frequently heard of. 

We left the house together. 

“ We shall soon see each other again,” said he, as we separated 

at the door of my lodging. 

1 MS., “ Arden ” throughout. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


On the Sunday I was punctual to my appointment to dine with 
the publisher. As I hurried along the square in which his house 
stood, my thoughts were fixed so intently on the great man that 
I passed by him without seeing him. He had observed me, 
however, and joined me just as I was about to knock at the door. 
“ Let us take a turn in the square,” said he, “ we shall not dine for 
half an hour.” 

“Well,” said he, as we were walking in the square, “what 
have you been doing since I last saw you?” 

“I have been looking about London,” said I, “and I have 
bought the Dairyman's Daughter ; here it is.” 

“ Pray put it up,” said the publisher; “ I don’t want to look 
at such trash. Well, do you think you could write anything like 
it ? ” 

“ I do not,” said I. 

“ How is that ? ” said the publisher, looking at me. 

“ Because,” said I, “ the man who wrote it seems to be per- 
fectly well acquainted with his subject ; and, moreover, to write 
from the heart.” 

“ By the subject you mean ” 

“ Religion.” 

“ And a’n’t you acquainted with religion ? ” 

“ Very little.” 

“ I am sorry for that,” said the publisher seriously, “ for he 
who sets up for an author ought to be acquainted not only with 
religion, but religions, and indeed with all subjects, like my good 
friend in the country. It is well that I have changed my mind 
about the Dai/yman’s Daughter , or I really don’t know whom I 
could apply to on the subject at the present moment, unless to 
himself ; and after all, I question whether his style is exactly 
suited for an evangelical novel.” 

“ Then you do not wish for an imitation of the Dairyman's 
Daughter ? ” 

“ I do not, sir ; I have changed my mind, as I told you 
(202) 


4TII Apr., ’24.] THE SUNDAY DINNER. 


203 


before ; I wish to employ you in another line, but will communicate 
to you my intentions after dinner.” 

At dinner, besides the publisher and myself, were present his 
wife and son, with his newly-married bride ; the wife appeared a 
quiet, respectable woman, and the young people looked very happy 
and good-natured; not so the publisher, who occasionally eyed 
both with contempt and dislike. Connected with this dinner 
there was one thing remarkable; the publisher took no animal 
food, but contented himself with feeding voraciously on rice and 
vegetables, prepared in various ways. 

“You eat no animal food, sir?” said I. 

“I do not, sir,” said he; “I have forsworn it upwards of 
twenty years. In one respect, sir, I am a Brahmin. I abhor 
taking away life — the brutes have as much right to live as 
ourselves.” 

“ But,” said I, “if the brutes were not killed, there would be 
such a superabundance of them, that the land would be overrun 
with them.” 

“ I do not think so, sir; few are killed in India, and yet there 
is plenty of room.” 

“But,” said I, “Nature intended that they should be de- 
stroyed, and the brutes themselves prey upon one another, and it 
is well for themselves and the world that they do so. What would 
be the state of things if every insect, bird and worm were left to 
perish of old age ? ” 

“ We will change the subject,” said the publisher ; “I have 
never been a friend to unprofitable discussions.” 

I looked at the publisher with some surprise, I had not been 
accustomed to be spoken to so magisterially; his countenance 
was dressed in a portentous frown, and his eye looked more 
sinister than ever ; at that moment he put me in mind of some of 
those despots of whom I had read in the history of Morocco, 
whose word was law. He merely wants power, thought I to 
myself, to be a regular Muley Mehemet ; and then I sighed, for 
I remembered how very much I was in the power of that man. 

The dinner over, the publisher nodded to his wife, who 
departed, followed by her daughter-in-law. The son looked as if 
he would willingly have attended them ; he, however, remained 
seated ; and, a small decanter of wine being placed on the table, 
the publisher filled two glasses, one of which he handed to 
myself, and the other to his son, saying: “Suppose you two 
drink to the success of the Review. I would join you,” said he, 
addressing himself to me, “ but I drink no wine ; if I am a 


204 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


Brahmin with respect to meat, I am a Mahometan with respect 
to wine.” 

So the son and I drank success to the Review, and then the 
young man asked me various questions ; for example — how I liked 
London? — Whether I did not think it a very fine place? — 
Whether I was at the play the night before ? — and whether I was 
in the park that afternoon ? He seemed preparing to ask me 
some more questions ; but, receiving a furious look from his 
father, he became silent, filled himself a glass of wine, drank it 
off, looked at the table for about a minute, then got up, pushed 
back his chair, made me a bow, and left the room. 

“ Is that young gentleman, sir,” said I, “ well versed in the 
principles of criticism ? ” 

“ He is not, sir,” said the publisher ; “ and, if I place him at 
the head of the Review ostensibly, I do it merely in the hope of 
procuring him a maintenance; of the principle of a thing he 
knows nothing, except that the principle of bread is wheat, and 
that the principle of that wine is grape. Will you take another 
glass?” 

I looked at the decanter ; but not feeling altogether so sure 
as the publisher’s son with respect to the principle of what it 
contained, I declined taking any more. 

“No, sir,” said the publisher, adjusting himself in his chair, 
“he knows nothing about criticism, and will have nothing more 
to do with the reviewals than carrying about the books to those 
who have to review them ; the real conductor of the Review will 
be a widely different person, to whom I will, when convenient, 
introduce you. And now we will talk of the matter which we 
touched upon before dinner : I told you then that I had changed 
my mind with respect to you ; I have been considering the state 
of the market, sir, the book market, and I have come to the 
conclusion that, though you might be profitably employed upon 
evangelical novels, you could earn more money for me, sir, and 
consequently for yourself, by a compilation of Newgate lives and 
trials.” 

“ Newgate lives and trials ! ” 

“Yes, sir,” said the publisher, “ Newgate lives and trials ; and 
now, sir, I will briefly state to you the services which I expect you 
to perform, and the terms I am willing to grant. I expect you, 
sir, to compile six volumes of Newgate lives and trials, each 
volume to contain by no manner of means less than one thousand 
pages ; the remuneration which you will receive when the work is 
completed will be fifty pounds, which is likewise intended to cover 


1824.] 


THE TASK. 


205 


any expenses you may incur in procuring books, papers and 
manuscripts necessary for the compilation. Such will be one of 
your employments, sir, — such the terms. In the second place, 
you will be expected to make yourself useful in the Review 
— generally useful, sir — doing whatever is required of you ; for it 
is not customary, at least with me, to permit writers, especially 
young writers, to choose their subjects. In these two departments, 
sir, namely, compilation and reviewing, I had yesterday, after due 
consideration, determined upon employing you. I had intended 
to employ you no further, sir — at least for the present ; but, sir, 
this morning I received a letter from my valued friend in the 
country, in which he speaks in terms of strong admiration (I 
don’t overstate) of your German acquirements. Sir, he says that 
it would be a thousand pities if your knowledge of the German 
language should be lost to the world, or even permitted to sleep, 
and he entreats me to think of some plan by which it may be 
turned to account. Sir, I am at all times willing, if possible, to 
oblige my worthy friend, and likewise to encourage merit and 
talent ; I have, therefore, determined to employ you in German.” 

“ Sir,” said I, rubbing my hands, “ you are very kind, and so 
is our mutual friend ; I shall be happy to make myself useful in 
German ; and if you think a good translation from Goethe — his 
* Sorrows * for example, or more particularly his ‘Faust ’ ” 

“Sir,” said the publisher, “Goethe is a drug; his ‘Sorrows’ 
are a drug, so is his ‘Faustus,’ more especially the last, since that 

fool rendered him into English. No, sir, I do not want you 

to translate Goethe or anything belonging to him ; nor do I want 
you to translate anything from the German ; what I want you to 
do, is to translate into German. I am willing to encourage merit, 
sir; and, as my good friend in his last letter has spoken very 
highly of your German acquirements, I have determined that you 
shall translate my book of philosophy into German.” 

“Your book of philosophy into German, sir?” 

“Yes, sir; my book of philosophy into German. I am not a 
drug, sir, in Germany, as Goethe is here, no more is my book. I 
intend to print the translation at Leipzig, sir ; and if it turns out 
a profitable speculation, as I make no doubt it will, provided the 
translation be well executed, I will make you some remuneration. 
Sir, your remuneration will be determined by the success of your 
translation.” 

“ But, sir ” 

“ Sir,” said the publisher, interrupting me, “ you have heard 
my intentions; I consider, that you ought to feel yourself highly 


206 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


gratified by my intentions towards you ; it is not frequently that 
I deal with a writer, especially a young writer, as I have done 
with you. And now, sir, permit me to inform you that I wish to 
be alone. This is Sunday afternoon, sir; I never go to church, 
but I am in the habit of spending part of every Sunday afternoon 
alone — profitably, I hope, sir — in musing on the magnificence of 
nature and the moral dignity of man.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


“What can’t be cured must be endured,” and “it is hard to kick 
against the pricks 

At the period to which I have brought my history, I bethought 
me of the proverbs with which I have headed this chapter, and 
determined to act up to their spirit. I determined not to fly in 
the face of the publisher, and to bear — what I could not cure — 
his arrogance and vanity. At present, at the conclusion of nearly 
a quarter of a century, I am glad that I came to that determination, 
which I did my best to carry into effect. 

Two or three days after our last interview, the publisher made 
his appearance in my apartment; he bore two tattered volumes 
under his arm, which he placed on the table. “ I have brought 
you two volumes of lives, sir,” said he, “ which I yesterday found 
in my garret ; you will find them of service for your compilation. 
As I always wish to behave liberally and encourage talent, especi- 
ally youthful talent, I shall make no charge for them, though I 
should be justified in so doing, as you are aware that, by our 
agreement, you are to provide any books and materials which 
may be necessary. Have you been in quest of any?” 

“ No,” said I, “ not yet.” 

“Then, sir, I would advise you to lose no time in doing so; 
you must visit all the bookstalls, sir, especially those in the by- 
streets and blind alleys. It is in such places that you will find 
the description of literature you are in want of. You must be up 
and doing, sir; it will not do for an author, especially a young 
author, to be idle in this town. To-night you will receive my 
book of philosophy, and likewise books for the Review. And, 
by-the-bye, sir, it will be as well for you to review my book of 
philosophy for the Review, the other Reviews not having noticed 
it. Sir, before translating it, I wish you to review my book of 
philosophy for the Review.” 

“ I shall be happy to do my best, sir.” 

“ Very good, sir ; I should be unreasonable to expect anything 
beyond a person’s best. And now, sir, if you please, I will 

(207) 


208 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


conduct you to the future editor of the Review. As you are to 
co-operate, sir, I deem it right to make you acquainted.” 

The intended editor was a little old man, who sat in a kind of 
wooden pavilion in a small garden behind a house in one of the 
purlieus of the city, composing tunes upon a piano. The walls 
of the pavilion were covered with fiddles of various sizes and 
appearances, and a considerable portion of the floor occupied 
by a pile of books all of one size. The publisher introduced 
him to me as a gentleman scarcely less eminent in literature than 
in music, and me to him as an aspirant critic — a young gentleman 
scarcely less eminent in philosophy than in philology. The con- 
versation consisted entirely of compliments till just before we 
separated, when the future editor inquired of me whether I had 
ever read Quintilian ; and, on my replying in the negative, ex- 
pressed his surprise that any gentleman should aspire to become 
a critic who had never read Quintilian, with the comfortable 
information, however, that he could supply me with a Quintilian 
at half-price, that is, a translation made by himself some years 
previously, of which he had, pointing to the heap on the floor, 
still a few copies remaining unsold. For some reason or other, 
perhaps a poor one, I did not purchase the editor’s translation of 
Quintilian. 

“ Sir,” said the publisher, as we were returning from our visit 
to the editor, “ you did right in not purchasing a drug. I am not 
prepared, sir, to say that Quintilian is a drug, never having seen 
him ; but I am prepared to say that man’s translation is a drug, 
judging from the heap of rubbish on the floor ; besides, sir, you 
will want any loose money you may have to purchase the descrip- 
tion of literature which is required for your compilation.” 

The publisher presently paused before the entrance of a very 
forlorn-looking street. “ Sir,” said he, after looking down it with 
attention, “ I should not wonder if in that street you find works 
connected with the description of literature which is required for 
your compilation. It is in streets of this description, sir, and 
blind alleys, where such works are to be found. You had better 
search that street, sir, whilst I continue my way.” 

I searched the street to which the publisher had pointed, and, 
in the course of the three succeeding days, many others of a 
similar kind. I did not find the description of literature alluded 
to by the publisher to be a drug, but, on the contrary, both scarce 
and dear. I had expended much more than my loose money 
long before I could procure materials even for the first volume 
of my compilation. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


One evening I was visited by the tall young gentleman, Francis 
Ardry, whose acquaintance I had formed at the coffee-house. 
As it is necessary that the reader should know something more 
about this young man, who will frequently appear in the course 
of these pages, I will state in a few words who and what he was. 
He was born of an ancient Roman Catholic family in Ireland; 
his parents, whose only child he was, had long been dead. His 
father, who had survived his mother several years, had been a 
spendthrift, and at his death had left the family property consider- 
ably embarrassed. Happily, however, the son and the estate fell 
into the hands of careful guardians, near relations of the family, by 
whom the property was managed to the best advantage, and every 
means taken to educate the young man in a manner suitable 
to his expectations. At the age of sixteen he was taken from a 
celebrated school in England at which he had been placed, and 
sent to a small French University, in order that he might form 
an intimate and accurate acquaintance with the grand language 
of the continent. There he continued three years, at the end of 
which he went, under the care of a French abbd, to Germany and 
Italy. It was in this latter country that he first began to cause 
his guardians serious uneasiness. He was in the hey-day of 
youth when he visited Italy, and he entered wildly into the 
various delights of that fascinating region, and, what was worse, 
falling into the hands of certain sharpers, not Italian, but English, 
he was fleeced of considerable sums of money. The abbe, who, 
it seems, was an excellent individual of the old French school, 
remonstrated with his pupil on his dissipation and extravagance ; 
but, finding his remonstrances vain, very properly informed the 
guardians of the manner of life of his charge. They were not 
slow in commanding Francis Ardry home ; and, as he was 
entirely in their power, he was forced to comply. He had been 
about three months in London when I met him in the coffee-room, 
and the two elderly gentlemen in his company were his guardians. 
At this time they were very solicitous that he should choose for 

(209) 14 


[1824. 


2io 


LA VENGRO. 


himself a profession, offering to his choice either the army or law 
— he was calculated to shine in either of these professions — for, 
like many others of his countrymen, he was brave and eloquent ; 
but he did not wish to shackle himself with a profession. As, 
however, his minority did not terminate till he was three-and- 
twenty, of which age he wanted nearly two years, during which 
he would be entirely dependent on his guardians, he deemed it 
expedient to conceal, to a certain degree, his sentiments, tempor- 
ising with the old gentlemen, with whom, notwithstanding his 
many irregularities, he was a great favourite, and at whose death 
he expected to come into a yet greater property than that which 
he inherited from his parents. 

Such is a brief account of Francis Ardry — of my friend Francis 
Ardry ; for the acquaintance, commenced in the singular manner 
with which the reader is acquainted, speedily ripened into a friend- 
ship which endured through many long years of separation, and 
which still endures certainly on my part, and on his — if he lives ; 
but it is many years since I have heard from Francis Ardry. 

And yet many people would have thought it impossible for 
our friendship to have lasted a week, for in many respects no two 
people could be more dissimilar. He was an Irishman, I an 
Englishman ; he fiery, enthusiastic and open-hearted, I neither 
fiery, enthusiastic nor open-hearted; he fond of pleasure and 
dissipation, I of study and reflection. Yet it is of such dis- 
similar elements that the most lasting friendships are formed : 
we do not like counterparts of ourselves. “ Two great talkers will 
not travel far together,” is a Spanish saying ; I will add, “ Nor two 
silent people ” ; we naturally love our opposites. 

So Francis Ardry came to see me, and right glad I was to see 
him, for I had just flung my books and papers aside, and was 
wishing for a little social converse ; and when we had conversed 
for some little time together, Francis Ardry proposed that we 
should go to the play to see Kean ; so we went to the play, and 
saw — not Kean, who at that time was ashamed to show himself, 
but — a man who was not ashamed to show himself, and who 
people said was a much better man than Kean — as I have no 
doubt he was— though whether he was a better actor I cannot say, 
lor I never saw Kean . 1 


1 The MS. develops this paragraph as follows : — 

So Francis Ardry called upon me, and right glad I was that he did so ; and 
after we had sat conversing for some time, he said, " Did you ever see Kean ? ” 
“No,” said I, “ but I have heard both of him and of Belcher. I should like 
to see either, especially the latter. Where are they to be found ? ” 


1824.] 


ECCENTRIC PLACES. 


211 


Two or three evenings after, Francis Ardry came to see me 
again, and again we went out together, and Francis Ardry took 
me to — shall I say? — why not? — a gaming-house, where I saw 
people playing, and where I saw Francis Ardry play and lose five 
guineas, and where I lost nothing, because I did not play, though 
1 felt somewhat inclined ; for a man with a white hat and a spark- 
ling eye held up a box which contained something which rattled, 
and asked me to fling the bones. “ There is nothing like flinging 
the bones ! ” said he, and then I thought I should like to know 
what kind of thing flinging the bones was ; I, however, restrained 
myself. “ There is nothing like flinging the bones ! ” shouted the 
man, as my friend and myself left the room. 

Long life and prosperity to Francis Ardry ! but for him I should 
not have obtained knowledge which I did of the strange and 
eccentric places of London. Some of the places to which he took 
me were very strange places indeed! but, however strange the 


“ I know nothing of the latter,” said Frank, “ but if you wish to see Kean, 
you had better come with me where he will appear to-night after a long absence. 
The public are anxiously waiting for him, intending to pelt him off the stage.” 

“ And what has he done,” said I, “ to be pelted off the stage ? ” 

“ What is very naughty,” said Frank ; “ breaking one of the commandments.” 

‘ ‘ And did he break the commandment on the stage ? ” 

“ No,’’ said Frank, “ I never heard that he broke it on the stage, except in 
the way of his profession.” 

“ Then, what have the public to do with the matter ?” 

“ They think they have,” said Frank. 

And then we went out together to see Shakespeare’s “ Richard,” or rather we 
went to see the man who was to personate Shakespeare’s “ Richard ’’—and so did 
thousands ; we did not see him, however. There was a great tumult, I remember, 
in the theatre. The man who was to perform the part of Richard, and who it 
was said was the best hand for interpreting the character that had ever appeared 
on the stage, had a short time before been involved in a disgraceful affair, and 
this was to be his first appearance on the stage since the discovery. The conse- 
quence was that crowds flocked to the theatre with the firm intention of expressing 
their indignation. “We will pelt his eyes out,” said a man who sat beside me 
in the pit — for we sat in the pit — and who bore the breach of all the command- 
ments in his face. The actor in question, however, who perhaps heard the threats 
which were vented against him, very prudently kept out of the way, and the 
manager coming forward informed the public that another would perform the 
part — whereupon there was a great uproar. “ We have been imposed upon,” 
said the individual who sat beside me. “ I came here for nothing else than to 
pelt that scoundrel off the stage.” The uproar, however, at length subsided, 
and the piece commenced. In a little time there was loud applause. The actor 
who had appeared in place of the other was performing. ‘ ‘ What do you clap 
for?” said I to the individual by my side, who was clapping most of all. “ What 
do I clap for ? ” said the man. ‘ ‘ Why, to encourage Macready, to be sure. 
Don’t you see how divinely he acts? why, he beats Kean hollow. Besides that, 
he’s a moral man, and I like morality.” “Do you mean to say,” said I, “ that 
he was never immoral ?” “ I neither know nor care,” said the man ; “ all I know 

is that he has never been found out. It will never do to encourage a public man 
who has been found out. No, no ! the morality of the stage must be seen after.” 


212 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824 


places were, I observed that the inhabitants thought there were 
no places like their several places, and no occupations like their 
several occupations ; and among other strange places to which 
Francis Ardry conducted me, was a place not far from the abbey 
church of Westminster. 

Before we entered this place our ears were greeted by a con- 
fused hubbub of human voices, squealing of rats, barking of dogs, 
and the cries of various other animals. Here we beheld a kind of 
cock-pit, around which a great many people, seeming of all ranks, 
but chiefly of the lower, were gathered, and in it we saw a dog 
destroy a great many rats in a very small period ; and when the 
dog had destroyed the rats, we saw a fight between a dog and a 
bear, then a fight between two dogs, then 

After the diversions of the day were over, my triend introduced 
me to the genius of the place, a small man of about five feet high, 
with a very sharp countenance, and dressed in a brown jockey 
coat, and top boots. “Joey/’ 1 said he, “this is a friend of mine.” 
Joey nodded to me with a patronising air. “ Glad to see you, sir ! 
— want a dog ? ” 

“ No,” said I. 

“ You have got one, then —want to match him ? ” 

“ We have a dog at home,” said I, “in the country ; but I can’t 
say I should like to match him. Indeed, I do not like dog- 
fighting.” 

“Not like dog-fighting ! ” said the man, staring. 

“ The truth is, Joe, that he is just come to town.” 

“ So I should think ; he looks rather green — not like dog- 
fighting ! ” 

“Nothing like it, is there, Joey?” 

“ I should think not ; what is like it ? A time will come, and 
that speedily, when folks will give up everything else, and follow 
dog-fighting.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” said I. 

“ Think so ? Let me ask what there is that a man wouldn’t 
give up for it ? ” 

“Why,” said I, modestly, “there’s religion.” 

“ Religion ! How you talk. Why, there’s myself, bred and 
born an Independent, and intended to be a preacher, didn’t I 
give up religion for dog-fighting ? Religion, indeed ! If it were 
not for the rascally law, my pit would fill better on Sundays than 
any other time. Who would go to church when they could come 


MS. “ Charlie ” and “Charlie’s” throughout. 


1824.] 


DOG-FIGHTING. 


213 


to my pit ? Religion ! why, the parsons themselves come to my 
pit ; and I have now a letter in my pocket from one of them, asking 
me to send him a dog.” 

“Well, then, politics,” said I. 

“ Politics ! Why, the gemmen in the House would leave Pitt 
himself, if he were alive, to come to my pit. There were three of 
the best of them here to-night, all great horators. Get on with 
you, what comes next ? ” 

“ Why, there’s learning and letters.” 

“Pretty things, truly, to keep people from dog-fighting ! Why, 
there’s the young gentlemen from the Abbey School comes here 
in shoals, leaving books, and letters, and masters too. To tell 
you the truth, I rather wish they would mind their letters, for a 
more precious set of young blackguards I never seed. It was 
only the other day I was thinking of calling in a constable for my 
own protection, for I thought my pit would have been torn down 
by them.” 

Scarcely knowing what to say, I made an observation at random. 
“You show by your own conduct,” said I, “that there are other 
things worth following besides dog-fighting. You practise rat- 
catching and badger-baiting as well.” 

The dog-fancier eyed me with supreme contempt. 

“Your friend here,” said he, “might well call you a new one. 
When I talks of dog-fighting, I of course means rat-catching and 
badger-baiting, ay, and bull-baiting too, just as when I speaks 
religiously, when I says one I means not one but three. And 
talking of religion puts me in mind that I have something else to 
do besides chaffing here, having a batch of dogs to send off by 
this night’s packet to the Pope of Rome.” 

But at last I had seen enough of what London had to show, 
whether strange or common-place, so at least I thought, and I 
ceased to accompany my friend in his rambles about town, and 
to partake of his adventures. Our friendship, however, still 
continued unabated, though I saw, in consequence, less of him. 
I reflected that time was passing on, that the little money I had 
brought to town was fast consuming, and that I had nothing to 
depend upon but my own exertions for a fresh supply; and I 
returned with redoubled application to my pursuits. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


I compiled the Chronicles of Newgate ; I reviewed books for the 
Review established on an entirely new principle ; and I occasion- 
ally tried my best to translate into German portions of the 
publisher’s philosophy. In this last task I experienced more than 
one difficulty. I was a tolerable German scholar, it is true, and 
I had long been able to translate from German into English with 
considerable facility ; but to translate from a foreign language into 
your own, is a widely different thing from translating from 
your own into a foreign language; and, in my first attempt to 
render the publisher into German, I was conscious of making 
miserable failures, from pure ignorance of German grammar; 
however, by the assistance of grammars and dictionaries, and by 
extreme perseverance, I at length overcame all the difficulties 
connected with the German language. But alas ! another 
difficulty remained, far greater than any connected with German 
— a difficulty connected with the language of the publisher — the 
language which the great man employed in his writings was very 
hard to understand ; I say in his writings, for his colloquial 
English was plain enough. Though not professing to be a scholar, 
he was much addicted, when writing, to the use of Greek and 
Latin terms, not as other people used them, but in a manner of 
his own, which set the authority of dictionaries at defiance ; the 
consequence was, that I was sometimes utterly at a loss to under- 
stand the meaning of the publisher. Many a quarter of an hour 
did I pass at this period staring at periods of the publisher, and 
wondering what he could mean, but in vain, till at last, with a 
shake of the head, I would snatch up the pen, and render the 
publisher literally into German. Sometimes I was almost tempted 
to substitute something of my own for what the publisher had 
written, but my conscience interposed ; the awful words Traduttore 
traditore commenced ringing in my ears, and I asked myself 
whether I should be acting honourably towards the publisher, 
who had committed to me the delicate task of translating him 
into German ; should I be acting honourably towards him, in 
making him speak in German in a manner different from that in 

(214) 


PUBLISHER’S PHILOSOPHY. 


215 


1824.] 


which he expressed himself in English ? No, I could not reconcile 
such conduct with any principle of honour; by substituting 
something of my own in lieu of these mysterious passages of the 
publisher, I might be giving a fatal blow to his whole system of 
philosophy. Besides, when translating into English, had I treated 
foreign authors in this manner? Had I treated the minstrels of 
the Kiaempe Viser in this manner ? No. Had I treated Ab 
Gwilym in this manner ? Even when translating his Ode to the 
Mist, in which he is misty enough, had I attempted to make 
Ab Gwilym less misty? No; on referring to my translation, I 
found that Ab Gwilym in my hands was quite as misty as in his 
own. Then, seeing that I had not ventured to take liberties with 
people who had never put themselves into my hands for the 
purpose of being rendered, how could I venture to substitute my 
own thoughts and ideas for the publisher’s, who had put himself 
into my hands for that purpose ? Forbid it every proper feeling ! 
— so I told the Germans in the publisher’s own way, the 
publisher’s tale of an apple and a pear. 

I at first felt much inclined to be of the publisher’s opinion 
with respect to the theory of the pear. After all, why should the 
earth be shaped like an apple, and not like a pear? — it would 
certainly gain in appearance by being shaped like a pear. A pear 
being a handsomer fruit than an apple, the publisher is probably 
right, thought I, and I will say that he is right on this point in 
the notice which I am about to write of his publication for the 
Review. And yet I don’t know, said I, after a long fit of musing 
— I don’t know but what there is more to be said for the Oxford 
theory. The world may be shaped like a pear, but I don’t know 
that it is ; but one thing I know, which is, that it does not taste 
like a pear ; I have always liked pears, but I don’t like the world. 
The world to me tastes much more like an apple, and I have 
never liked apples. I will uphold the Oxford theory ; besides, I 
am writing in an Oxford Review, and am in duty bound to uphold 
the Oxford theory. So in my notice I asserted that the world 
was round ; I quoted Scripture, and endeavoured to prove that 
the world was typified by the apple in Scripture, both as to shape 
and properties. “An apple is round,” said I, “and the world is 
round ; the apple is a sour, disagreeable fruit, and who has tasted 
much of the world without having his teeth set on edge?” I, 
however, treated the publisher, upon the whole, in the most 
urbane and Oxford-like manner; complimenting him upon his 
style, acknowledging the general soundness of his views, and only 
differing with him in the affair of the apple and pear. 


2l6 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


I did not like reviewing at all it was not to my taste ; it was 
not in my way ; I liked it far less than translating the publisher’s 
philosophy, for that was something in the line of one whom a 
competent judge had surnamed “ Lavengro”. I never could under- 
stand why reviews were instituted ; works of merit do not require 
to be reviewed, they can speak for themselves, and require no 
praising ; works of no merit at all will die of themselves, they 
require no killing. The Review to which I was attached was, as 
has been already intimated, established on an entirely new plan ; 
it professed to review all new publications, which certainly no 
Review had ever professed to do before, other Reviews never 
pretending to review more than one-tenth of the current literature 
of the day. When I say it professed to review all new publications, 
I should add, which should be sent to it ; for, of course, the 
Review would not acknowledge the existence of publications, the 
authors of which did not acknowledge the existence of the Review. 
I don’t think, however, that the Review had much cause to com- 
plain of being neglected ; I have reason to believe that at least 
nine-tenths of the publications of the day were sent to the Review, 
and in due time reviewed. I had good opportunity of judging. 
I was connected with several departments of the Review, though 
more particularly with the poetical and philosophic ones. An 
English translation of Kant’s philosophy made its appearance on 
my table the day before its publication. In my notice of this 
work, I said that the English shortly hoped to give the Germans 
a quid pro quo. I believe at that time authors were much in the 
habit of publishing at their own expense. All the poetry which 
I reviewed appeared to be published at the expense of the authors. 
If I am asked how I comported myself, under all circumstances, 
as a reviewer, I answer, I did not forget that I was connected 
with a Review established on Oxford principles, the editor of which 
had translated Quintilian. All the publications which fell under 
my notice I treated in a gentlemanly and Oxford-like manner, no 
personalities — no vituperation — no shabby insinuations ; decorum, 
decorum was the order of the day. Occasionally a word of admoni- 
tion, but gently expressed, as an Oxford under-graduate might have 
expressed it, or master of arts. How the authors whose publications 
were consigned to my colleagues were treated by them I know not ; 
I suppose they were treated in an urbane and Oxford-like manner, 
but I cannot say ; I did not read the reviewals of my colleagues, I 
did not read my own after they were printed. I did not like 
reviewing. 

Of all my occupations at this period I am free to confess I 


1824 -] 


REFLECTIONS 


217 


liked that of compiling the Newgate Lives and Trials the best ; 
that is, after I had surmounted a kind of prejudice which I 
originally entertained. The trials were entertaining enough ; but 
the lives— how full were they of wild and racy adventures, and in 
what racy, genuine language were they told. What struck me 
most with respect to these lives was the art which the writers, 
whoever they were, possessed of telling a plain story. It is no easy 
thing to tell a story plainly and distinctly by mouth ; but to tell 
one on paper is difficult indeed, so many snares lie in the way. 
People are afraid to put down what is common on paper, they 
seek to embellish their narratives, as they think, by philosophic 
speculations and reflections ; they are anxious to shine, and people 
who are anxious to shine can never tell a plain story. “So 
I went with them to a music booth, where they made me almost 
drunk with gin, and began to talk their flash language, which I 
did not understand,” says, or is made to say, Henry Simms, executed 
at Tyburn some seventy years before the time of which I am speak- 
ing. I have always looked upon this sentence as a masterpiece 
of the narrative style, it is so concise and yet so very clear. As I 
gazed on passages like this, and there were many nearly as good 
in the Newgate Lives, I often sighed that it was not my fortune to 
have to render these lives into German rather than the publisher’s 
philosophy — his tale of an apple and pear. 

Mine was an ill-regulated mind at this period. As I read over 
the lives of these robbers and pickpockets, strange doubts began 
to arise in my mind about virtue and crime. Years before, when 
quite a boy, as in one of the early chapters I have hinted, I had 
been a necessitarian ; I had even written an essay on crime (I have 
it now before me, penned in a round, boyish hand), in which I 
attempted to prove that there is no such thing as crime or virtue, 
all our actions being the result of circumstances or necessity. 
These doubts were now again reviving in my mind ; I could not 
for the life of me imagine how, taking all circumstances into 
consideration, these highwaymen, these pickpockets, should have 
been anything else than highwaymen and pickpockets ; any more 
than how, taking all circumstances into consideration, Bishop 
Latimer (the reader is aware that I had read Fox’s Book of 
Martyrs ) should have been anything else than Bishop Latimer. 
I had a very ill-regulated mind at that period. 

My own peculiar ideas with respect to everything being a lying 
dream began also to revive. Sometimes at midnight, after having 
toiled for hours at my occupations, I would fling myself back on 
my chair, look about the poor apartment, dimly lighted by an 


2i8 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


unsnuffed candle, or upon the heaps of books and papers before 
me, and exclaim : “ Do I exist ? Do these things, which I think 
I see about me, exist, or do they not ? Is not everything a dream 
— a deceitful dream ? Is not this apartment a dream — the furni- 
ture a dream ? The publisher a dream — his philosophy a dream ? 
Am I not myself a dream — dreaming about translating a dream ? 
I can’t see why all should not be a dream ; what’s the use of the 
reality ? ” And then I would pinch myself, and snuff the burdened 
smoky light. “ I can’t see, for the life of me, the use of all this ; 
therefore, why should I think that it exists ? If there was a chance, 
a probability of all this tending to anything, I might believe ; but 

” and then I would stare and think, and after some time 

shake my head and return again to my occupations for an hour or 
two ; and then I would perhaps shake, and shiver, and yawn, and 
look wistfully in the direction of my sleeping apartment ; and 
then, but not wistfully, at the papers and books before me ; and 
sometimes I would return to my papers and books ; but oftener I 
would arise, and, after another yawn and shiver, take my light, 
and proceed to my sleeping chamber. 

They say that light fare begets light dreams ; my fare at that 
time was light enough, but I had anything but light dreams, for 
at that period I had all kind of strange and extravagant dreams, 
and amongst other things I dreamt that the whole world had 
taken to dog-fighting; and that I, myself, had taken to dog-fighting, 
and that in a vast circus I backed an English bulldog against the 
bloodhound of the Pope of Rome. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


One morning I arose somewhat later that usual, having been 
occupied during the greater part of the night with my literary toil. 
On descending from my chamber into the sitting-room I found a 
person seated by the fire, whose glance was directed sideways to 
the table, on which were the usual preparations for my morning’s 
meal. Forthwith I gave a cry, and sprang forward to embrace 
the person ; for the person by the fire, whose glance was directed 
to the table, was no one else than my brother. 

“ And how are things going on at home ? ” said I to my 
brother, after we had kissed and embraced. “ How is my 
mother, and how is the dog?” 

“ My mother, thank God, is tolerably well,” said my brother, 
“ but very much given to fits of crying. As for the dog, he is not 
so well ; but we will talk more of these matters anon,” said my 
brother, again glancing at the breakfast things : “I am very 
hungry, as you may suppose, after having travelled all night." 

Thereupon I exerted myself to the best of my ability to 
perform the duties of hospitality, and I made my brother welcome 
— I may say more than welcome ; and, when the rage of my 
brother’s hunger was somewhat abated, we recommenced talking 
about the matters of our little family, and my brother told me 
much about my mother ; he spoke of her fits of crying, but said 
that of late the said fits of crying had much diminished, and she 
appeared to be taking comfort ; and if I am not much mistaken, 
my brother told me that my mother had of late the prayer-book 
frequently in her hand, and yet oftener the Bible. 

We were silent for a time ; at last I opened my mouth and 
mentioned the dog. 

“The dog,” said my brother, “is, I am afraid, in a very poor 
way; ever since the death he has done nothing but pine and 
take on. A few months ago, you remember, he was as plump 
and fine as any dog in the town ; but at present he is little more 
than skin and bone. Once we lost him for two days, and never 
expected to see him again, imagining that some mischance had 


220 


LA VBNGRO. 


[29TH Apr., ’24. 


befallen him; at length I found him — where do you think? 
Chancing to pass by the churchyard, I found him seated on the 
grave ! ” 

“ Very strange,” said I ; “ but let us talk of something else. 
It was very kind of you to come and see me.” 

“ Oh, as for that matter, I did not come up to see you, though 
of course I am very glad to see you, having been rather anxious 
about you, like my mother, who has received only one letter from 
you since your departure. No, I did not come up on purpose to 
see you ; but on quite a different account. You must know that 
the corporation of our town have lately elected a new mayor, a 
person of many qualifications — big and portly, with a voice like 
Boanerges; a religious man, the possessor of an immense pew; 
loyal, so much so that I once heard him say that he would at any 
time go three miles to hear any one sing ‘ God save the King ’ ; 
moreover, a giver of excellent dinners. Such is our present 
mayor; who, owing to his loyalty, his religion, and a little, 
perhaps, to his dinners, is a mighty favourite ; so much so that 
the town is anxious to have his portrait painted in a superior 
style, so that remote posterity may know what kind of man he 
was, the colour of his hair, his air and gait. So a committee was 
formed some time ago, which is still sitting; that is, they dine 
with the mayor every day to talk over the subject. A few days 
since, to my great surprise, they made their appearance in my 
poor studio, and desired to be favoured with a sight of some of 
my paintings ; well, I showed them some, and, after looking at 
them with great attention, they went aside and whispered. ‘He’ll 
do,’ I heard one say ; ‘yes, he’ll do,’ said another; and then they 
came to me, and one of them, a little man with a hump on his 
back, who is a watchmaker, assumed the office of spokesman, and 
made a long speech (the old town has been always celebrated 
for orators) in which he told me how much they had been 
pleased with my productions (the old town has been always 
celebrated for its artistic taste), and, what do you think? offered 
me the painting of the mayor’s portrait, and a hundred pounds 
for my trouble. 

“Well, of course I was much surprised, and for a minute or 
two could scarcely speak ; recovering myself, however, I made a 
speech, not so eloquent as that of the watchmaker, of course, 
being not so accustomed to speaking; but not so bad either, 
taking everything into consideration, telling them how flattered I 
felt by the honour which they had conferred in proposing to me 
such an undertaking; expressing, however, my fears that I was 


1824.] 


JOHN’S VISIT. 


221 


not competent to the task, and concluding by saying what a pity 
it was that Crome was dead. ‘Crome, 5 said the little man, 
‘ Crome ; yes, he was a clever man, a very clever man in his way; 
he was good at painting landscapes and farm-houses, but he 
would not do in the present instance, were he alive. He had no 
conception of the heroic, sir. We want some person capable of 
representing our mayor striding linder the Norman arch out of 
the cathedral.’ At the mention of the heroic, an idea came at 
once into my head. ‘Oh, 5 said I, ‘if you are in quest of the 
heroic, I am glad that you came to me; don’t mistake me, 5 I 
continued, ‘ I do not mean to say that I could do justice to your 
subject, though I am fond of the heroic ; but I can introduce you 
to a great master of the heroic, fully competent to do justice to 
your mayor. Not to me, therefore, be the painting of the picture 
given, but to a friend of mine, the great master of the heroic, to 
the best, the strongest, t <5 Kpario-np,’ I added, for, being amongst 
orators, I thought a word of Greek would tell.” 

“Well, 55 said I, “and what did the orators say? 55 

“They gazed dubiously at me and at one another, 55 said my 
brother; “at last the watchmaker asked me who this Mr. Christo 
was ; adding, that he had never heard of such a person ; that, 
from my recommendation of him, he had no doubt that he was a 
very clever man, but that they should like to know something 
more about him before giving the commission to him. That he 
had heard of Christie the great auctioneer, who was considered 
to be an excellent judge of pictures ; but he supposed that I 

scarcely Whereupon', interrupting the watchmaker, I told 

him that I alluded neither to Christo nor to Christie, but to the 
painter of Lazarus rising from the grave, a painter under whom I 
had myself studied during some months that I had spent in 
London, and to whom I was indebted for much connected with 
the heroic. 55 

“ I have heard of him, 55 said the watchmaker, “ and his 
paintings too ; but I am afraid that he is not exactly the gentle- 
man by whom our mayor would wish to be painted. I have 
heard say that he is not a very good friend to Church and State. 
Come, young man, 55 he added, “ it appears to me that you are too 
modest; I like your style of painting, so do we all, and — why 
should I mince the matter ? — the money is to be collected in the 
town, why should it go into a stranger’s pocket, and be spent in 
London ? 55 

Thereupon I made them a speech, in which I said that art 
had nothing to do with Church and State, at least with English 


222 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


Church and State, which had never encouraged it; and that, 
though Church and State were doubtless very fine things, a man 
might be a very good artist who cared not a straw for either. I then 
made use of some more Greek words, and told them how painting 
was one of the Nine Muses, and one of the most independent 
creatures alive, inspiring whom she pleased, and asking leave of 
nobody ; that I should be quite unworthy of the favours of the 
Muse if, on the present occasion, I did not recommend them a 
man whom I considered to be a much greater master of the 
heroic than myself; and that, with regard to the money being 
spent in the city, I had no doubt that they would not weigh for a 
moment such a consideration against the chance of getting a true 
heroic picture for the city. I never talked so well in my life, and 
said so many flattering things to the hunchback and his friends, 
that at last they said that I should have my own way ; and that 
if I pleased to go up to London, and bring down the painter of 
Lazarus to paint the mayor, I might ; so they then bade me 
farewell, and I have come up to London. 

“To put a hundred pounds into the hands of ” 

“A better man than myself,” said my brother, “of course.’* 
“And have you come up at your own expense?” 

“ Yes,” said my brother, “ I have come up at my own expense.” 
1 made no answer, but looked in my brother’s face. We then 
returned to the former subjects of conversation, talking of the 
dead, my mother, and the dog. 

After some time my brother said : “I will now go to the 
painter, and communicate to him the business which has brought 
me to town ; and, if you please, I will take you with me and 
introduce you to him ”. 1 Having expressed my willingness, we 
descended into the street. 


1 The MS. adds : “ ‘ It will, perhaps, be as well, first of all, to go to the 
exhibition of British art, which is at present open. I hear he has a picture there, 
which he has just finished. We will look at it, and from that you may form a 
tolerable estimate of his powers.’ Thereupon my brother led the way, and we 
presently found ourselves in the Gallery of British Art.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


The painter of the heroic resided a great way off, at the western 
end of the town. We had some difficulty in obtaining admission 
to him, a maid-servant, who opened the door, eyeing us some- 
what suspiciously ; it was not until my brother had said that he 
was a friend of the painter that we were permitted to pass the 
threshold. At length we were shown into the studio, where we 
found the painter, with an easel and brush, standing before a huge 
piece of canvas, on which he had lately commenced painting a 
heroic picture. The painter might be about thirty-five years old ; 
he had a clever, intelligent countenance, with a sharp grey eye ; 
his hair was dark brown, and cut k-la Rafael, as I was subsequently 
told, that is, there was little before and much behind ; he did not 
wear a neckcloth, but, in its stead, a black riband, so that his 
neck, which was rather fine, was somewhat exposed ; he had a 
broad, muscular breast, and I make no doubt that he would have 
been a very fine figure, but unfortunately his legs and thighs were 
somewhat short. He recognised my brother, and appeared glad 
to see him. 

“ What brings you to London ? ” said he. 

Whereupon my brother gave him a brief account of his com- 
mission. At the mention of the hundred pounds, I observed the 
eyes of the painter glisten. “ Really,” said he, when my brother 
had concluded, “ it was very kind to think of me. I am not very 
fond of painting portraits ; but a mayor is a mayor, and there is 
something grand in that idea of the Norman arch. I’ll go ; more- 
over, I am just at this moment confoundedly in need of money, 
and when you knocked at the door, I don’t mind telling you, I 
thought it was some dun. I don’t know how it is, but in the 
capital they have no taste for the heroic, they will scarce look at a 
heroic picture ; I am glad to hear that they have better taste in 
the provinces. I’ll go ; when shall we set off?” 

Thereupon it was arranged between the painter and my brother 
that they should depart the next day but one ; they then began to 
talk of art. “ I’ll stick to the heroic,” said the painter ; “ I now 


224 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


and then dabble in the comic, but what I do gives me no pleasure, 
the comic is so low ; there is nothing like the heroic. I am 
engaged here on a heroic picture,” said he, pointing to the 
canvas ; “ the subject is ‘ Pharaoh dismissing Moses from Egypt,’ 
after the last plague — the death of the first-born ; it is not 
far advanced — that finished figure is Moses ” : they both looked 
at the canvas, and I, standing behind, took a modest peep. The 
picture, as the painter said, was not far advanced, the Pharaoh 
was merely in outline ; my eye was, of course, attracted by the 
finished figure, or rather what the painter had called the 
finished figure ; but, as I gazed upon it, it appeared to me that 
there was something defective — something unsatisfactory in the 
figure. I concluded, however, that the painter, notwithstanding 
what he had said, had omitted to give it the finishing touch. “ I 
intend this to be my best picture,” said the painter; “what I 
want now is a face for Pharaoh ; I have long been meditating on 
a face for Pharaoh.” Here, chancing to cast his eye upon my 
countenance, of whom he had scarcely taken any manner of 
notice, he remained with his mouth open for some time. “ Who 
is this?” said he at last. “Oh, this is my brother, I forgot to 
introduce him ” 

We presently afterwards departed; my brother talked much 
about the painter. “ He is a noble fellow,” said my brother ; 
“ but, like many other noble fellows, has a great many enemies ; he 
is hated by his brethren of the brush -all the land and water-scape 
painters hate him — but, above all, the race of portrait painters, 
who are ten times more numerous than the other two sorts, detest 
him for his heroic tendencies. It will be a kind of triumph to 
the last, I fear, when they hear he has condescended to paint a 
portrait ; however, that Norman arch will enable him to escape 
from their malice — that is a capital idea of the watchmaker, that 
Norman arch.” 

I spent a happy day with my brother. On the morrow he went 
again to the painter, with whom he dined ; I did not go with him. 
On his return he said : “ The painter has been asking a great 
many questions about you, and expressed a wish that you w T ould 
sit to him as Pharaoh ; he thinks you would make a capital 
Pharaoh ”. “ I have no wish to appear on canvas,” said I ; 

“moreover, he can find much better Pharaohs than myself ; and, 
if he wants a real Pharaoh, there is a certain Mr. Petulengro.” 
“ Petulengro ? ” said my brother; “a strange kind of fellow came 
up to me some time ago in our town, and asked me about you ; 
when I inquired his name, he told me Petulengro. No, he will 


THE MAYOR'S PORTRAIT. 


225 


1824.] 


not do, he is too short ; by-the-bye, do you not think that figure 
of Moses is somewhat short ? ” And then it appeared to me that 
I had thought the figure of Moses somewhat short, and I told my 
brother so. “ Ah ! ” said my brother. 

On the morrow my brother departed with the painter for the 
old town, and there the painter painted the mayor. I did not see 
the picture for a great many years, when, chancing to be at the 
old town, I beheld it. 

The original mayor was a mighty, portly man, with a bull’s 
head, black hair, body like that of a dray horse, and legs and 
thighs corresponding ; a man six foot high at the least. To his 
bull’s head, black hair and body the painter had done justice ; 
there was one point, however, in which the portrait did not 
correspond with the original — the legs were disproportionably 
short, the painter having substituted his own legs for those of the 
mayor, which when I perceived I rejoiced that I had not consented 
to be painted as Pharaoh, for, if I had, the chances are that he 
would have served me in exactly a similar way as he had served 
Moses and the mayor. 

Short legs in a heroic picture will never do ; and, upon the 
whole, I think the painter’s attempt at the heroic in painting the 
mayor of the old town a decided failure. If I am now asked 
whether the picture would have been a heroic one provided the 
painter had not substituted his own legs for those of the mayor, 
I must say, I am afraid not. I have no idea of making heroic 
pictures out of English mayors, even with the assistance of 
Norman arches ; yet I am sure that capital pictures might be 
made out of English mayors, not issuing from Norman arches, 
but rather from the door of the “ Checquers ” or the “ Brewers 
Three ”. The painter in question had great comic power, which 
he scarcely ever cultivated ; he would fain be a Rafael, which he 
never could be, when he might have been something quite as 
good — another Hogarth ; the only comic piece which he ever 
presented to the world being something little inferior to the best 
of that illustrious master. I have often thought what a capital 
picture might have been made by my brother’s friend, if, instead 
of making the mayor issue out of the Norman arch, he had painted 
him moving under the sign of the “Checquers,” or the “Three 
Brewers,” with mace — yes, with mace, — the mace appears in the 
picture issuing out of the Norman arch behind the mayor, — but 
likewise with Snap, and with whiffler, quart pot, and frying pan, 
Billy Blind, and Owlenglass, Mr. Petulengro and Pakomovna ; 
then, had he clapped his own legs upon the mayor, or any one 

*5 


226 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


else in the concourse, what matter ? But I repeat that I have no 
hope of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, or, indeed, 
out of English figures in general. England may be a land of 
heroic hearts, but it is not, properly, a land of heroic figures, or 

heroic posture-making. Italy what was I going to say about 

Italy ? 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


And now once more to my pursuits, to my Lives and Trials. 
However partial at first I might be to these lives and trials, it was 
not long before they became regular trials to me, owing to the 
whims and caprices of the publisher. I had not been long 
connected with him before I discovered that he was wonderfully 
fond of interfering with other people’s business — at least with the 
business of those who were under his control. What a life did 
his unfortunate authors lead ! He had many in his employ toiling 
at all kinds of subjects — I call them authors because there is 
something respectable in the term author, though they had little 
authorship in, and no authority whatever over, the works on which 
they were engaged. It is true the publisher interfered with some 
colour of reason, the plan of all and every of the works alluded to 
having originated with himself ; and, be it observed, many of his 
plans were highly clever and promising, for, as I have already 
had occasion to say, the publisher in many points was a highly 
clever and sagacious person ; but he ought to have been contented 
with planning the works originally, and have left to other people 
the task of executing them, instead of which he marred everything 
by his rage for interference. If a book of fairy tales was being 
compiled, he was sure to introduce some of his philosophy, 
explaining the fairy tale by some theory of his own. Was a 
book of anecdotes on hand, it was sure to be half-filled with 
sayings and doings of himself during the time that he was 
common councilman of the city of London. Now, however 
fond the public might be of fairy tales, it by no means relished 
them in conjunction with the publisher’s philosophy ; and however 
fond of anecdotes in general, or even of the publisher in particular 
— for indeed there were a great many anecdotes in circulation 
about him which the public both read and listened to very 
readily — it took no pleasure in such anecdotes as he was disposed 
to relate about himself. In the compilation of my Lives and 
Trials, I was exposed to incredible mortification, and ceaseless 
trouble, from this same rage for interference. It is true he could 

(227) 


228 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


not introduce his philosophy into the work, nor was it possible 
for him to introduce anecdotes of himself, having never had the 
good or evil fortune to be tried at the bar ; but he was continually 
introducing — what, under a less apathetic government than the 
one then being, would have infallibly subjected him, and perhaps 
myself, to a trial — his politics ; not his Oxford or pseudo politics, 
but the politics which he really entertained, and which were of 
the most republican and violent kind. But this was not all; 
when about a moiety of the first volume had been printed, he 
materially altered the plan of the work ; it was no longer to be a 
collection of mere Newgate lives and trials, but of lives and trials 
of criminals in general, foreign as well as domestic. In a little 
time the work became a wondrous farrago, in which Konigs- 
mark the robber figured by the side of Sam Lynn, and the 
Marchioness de Brinvilliers was placed in contact with a Chinese 
outlaw. What gave me the most trouble and annoyance, was the 
publisher’s remembering some life or trial, foreign or domestic, 
which he wished to be inserted, and which I was forthwith to go 
in quest of and purchase at my own expense: some of those 
lives and trials were by no means easy to find. “Where is 
Brandt and Struensee ? ” cries the publisher ; “ I am sure I don’t 
know,” I replied ; whereupon the publisher falls to squealing like 
one of Joey’s rats. “ Find me up Brandt and Struensee by next 

morning, or ” “Have you found Brandt and Struensee?” 

cried the publisher, on my appearing before him next morning. 
“No,” I reply, “I can hear nothing about them;” whereupon 
the publisher falls to bellowing like Joey’s bull. By dint of 
incredible diligence, I at length discover the dingy volume 
containing the lives and trials of the celebrated two who had 
brooded treason dangerous to the state of Denmark. I purchase 
the dingy volume, and bring it in triumph to the publisher, the 
perspiration running down my brow. The publisher takes the 
dingy volume in his hand, he examines it attentively, then puts 
it down ; his countenance is calm for a moment, almost benign. 
Another moment and there is a gleam in the publisher’s sinister 
eye; he snatches up the paper containing the names of the 
worthies which I have intended shall figure in the forthcoming 
volumes — he glances rapidly over it, and his countenance once 
more assumes a terrific expression. “How is this?” he exclaims; 
“I can scarcely believe my eyes— the most important life and 
trial omitted to be found in the whole criminal record — what 
gross, what utter negligence ! Where’s the life of Farmer Patch ? 
where’s the trial of Yeoman Patch ? ” 


I 2th July, *24.] 


THE PROCESSION. 


229 


“ What a life ! what a dog’s life ! ” I would frequently exclaim, 
after escaping from the presence of the publisher. 

One day, after a scene with the publisher similar to that which 
I have described above, I found myself about noon at the bottom 
of Oxford Street, where it forms a right angle with the road which 
leads or did lead to Tottenham Court. Happening to cast my 
eyes around, it suddenly occurred to me that something uncommon 
was expected ; people were standing in groups on the pavement — 
the upstair windows of the houses were thronged with faces, 
especially those of women, and many of the shops were partly, 
and not a few entirely closed. What could be the reason of all 
this ? All at once I bethought me that this street of Oxford was 
no other than the far-famed Tyburn way. Oh, oh, thought I, an 
execution ; some handsome young robber is about to be executed 
at the farther end; just so, see how earnestly the women are 
peering; perhaps another Harry Symms — Gentleman Harry as 
they called him — is about to be carted along this street to Tyburn 
tree; but then I remembered that Tyburn tree had long since 
been cut down, and that criminals, whether young or old, good- 
looking or ugly, were executed before the big stone gaol, which 
I had looked at with a kind of shudder during my short rambles 
in the city. What could be the matter? Just then I heard 
various voices cry “ There it comes ! ” and all heads were turned 
up Oxford Street, down which a hearse was slowly coming : nearer 
and nearer it drew ; presently it was just opposite the place where 
I was standing, when, turning to the left, it proceeded slowly 
along Tottenham Road ; immediately behind the hearse were 
three or four mourning coaches, full of people, some of which, 
from the partial glimpse which I caught of them, appeared to be 
foreigners; behind these came a very long train of splendid 
carriages, all of which, without one exception, were empty. 

“ Whose body is in that hearse ? ” said I to a dapper-looking 
individual seemingly a shopkeeper, who stood beside .me on the 
pavement, looking at the procession. 

“ The mortal relics of Lord Byron,” said the dapper-looking 
individual, mouthing his words and smirking, “the illustrious 
poet, which have been just brought from Greece, and are being 
conveyed to the family vault in shire.” 

“An illustrious poet, was he?” said I. 

“ Beyond all criticism,” said the dapper man ; “ all we of the 
rising generation are under incalculable obligation to Byron; I 
myself, in particular, have reason to say so ; in all my correspond- 
ence my style is formed on the Byronic model.” 


LA VENGRO. 


230 




I looked at the individual for a moment, who smiled and 
smirked to himself applause, and then I turned my eyes upon the 
hearse proceeding slowly up the almost endless street. This man, 
this Byron, had for many years past been the demigod of England, 
and his verses the daily food of those who read, from the peer to 
the draper’s assistant ; all were admirers, or rather worshippers, of 
Byron, and all doated on his verses ; and then I thought of those 
who, with genius as high as his, or higher, had lived and died 
neglected. I thought of Milton abandoned to poverty and blind- 
ness ; of witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the tender 
mercies of bailiffs ; and starving Otway : they had lived neglected 
and despised, and, when they died, a few poor mourners only had 
followed them to the grave ; but this Byron had been made a half- 
god of when living, and now that he was dead he was followed 
by worshipping crowds, and the very sun seemed to come out on 
purpose to grace his funeral. And, indeed, the sun, which for 
many days past had hidden its face in clouds, shone out that 
morn with wonderful brilliancy, flaming upon the black hearse and 
its tall ostrich plumes, the mourning coaches, and the long train 
of aristocratic carriages which followed behind. 

“ Great poet, sir,” said the dapper-looking man, “ great poet, 
but unhappy.” 

Unhappy? yes, I had heard that he had been unhappy; that 
he had roamed about a fevered, distempered man, taking pleasure 
in nothing — that I had heard; but was it true? was he really 
unhappy? was not this unhappiness assumed, with the view of 
increasing the interest which the world took in him ? and yet who 
could say ? He might be unhappy and with reason. Was he a 
real poet, after all? might he not doubt himself? might he not 
have a lurking consciousness that he was undeserving of the 
homage which he was receiving ? that it could not last ? that he 
was rather at the top of fashion than of fame ? He was a lordling, 
a glittering, gorgeous lordling: and he might have had a con- 
sciousness that he owed much of his celebrity to being so ; he 
might have felt that he was rather at the top of fashion than of 
fame. Fashion soon changes, thought I eagerly to myself; a 
time will come, and that speedily, when he will be no longer in the 
fashion ; when this idiotic admirer of his, who is still grinning at 
my side, shall have ceased to mould his style on Byron’s ; and 
this aristocracy, squirearchy, and what not, who now send 
their empty carriages to pay respect to the fashionable corpse, 
shall have transferred their empty worship to some other animate 
or inanimate thing. Well, perhaps after all it was better to have 


1824.] 


LORD BYRON. 


*3t 


been mighty Milton in his poverty and blindness — witty and 
ingenious Butler consigned to the tender mercies of bailiffs, and 
starving Otway ; they might enjoy more real pleasure than this 
lordling ; they must have been aware that the world would one 
day do them justice — fame after death is better than the top of 
fashion in life. They have left a fame behind them which shall 
never die, whilst this lordling — a time will come when he 
will be out of fashion and forgotten. And yet I don’t know ; 
didn’t he write “ Childe Harold” and that ode? Yes, he wrote 
“ Childe Harold ” and that ode. Then a time will scarcely come 
when he will be forgotten. Lords, squires and cockneys may pass 
away, but a time will scarcely come when “Childe Harold ” and that 
ode will be forgotten. He was a poet, after all, and he must have 

known it ; a real poet, equal to to what a destiny ! rank, 

beauty, fashion, immortality — he could not be unhappy ; what a 
difference in the fate of men — I wish I could think he was unhappy. 

I turned away. 

“ Great poet, sir,” said the dapper man, turning away too, “ but 
unhappy — fate of genius, sir ; I, too, am frequently unhappy.” 

Hurrying down the street to the right, I encountered Francis 
Ardry. 

“What means the multitude yonder?” he demanded. 

“ They are looking after the hearse which is carrying the 
remains of Byron up Tottenham Road.” 

“ I have seen the man,” said my friend, as he turned back 
the way he had come, “ so I can dispense with seeing the hearse 
— I saw the living man at Venice — ah, a great poet.” 

[“ I don’t think so,” said I. 

“ Hey ! ” said Francis Ardry . 1 

“A perfumed lordling.” 

“Ah!” 

“ With a white hand loaded with gawds.” 

“Ah!” 

“ Who wrote verses.” 

« Ah ! ” 

“ Replete with malignity and sensualism.” 

“ Yes ! ” 

“ Not half so great a poet as Milton.” 

“No?” 

“Nor Butler.” 

“No?” 

“Nor Otway.” 


1 Arden throughout the MS. 


232 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


“No?” 

“Nor that poor boy Chatterton, who, maddened by rascally 
patrons and publishers, took poison at last.” 

“ No ? ” said Francis Ardry. 

“ Why do you keep saying ‘ No ’ ? I tell you that I am no 
admirer of Byron.” 

“Well,” said Frank, “don’t say so to any one else. It will be 
thought that you are envious of his glory, as indeed I almost 
think you are.” 

“ Envious of him ! ” said I ; “ how should I be envious of him ? 
Besides, the man’s dead, and a live dog, you know ” 

“You do not think so,” said Frank, “and at this moment I 
would wager something that you would wish for nothing better 
than to exchange places with that lordling, as you call him, cold 
as he is.” 

“ Well, who knows ? ” said I. “I really think the man is over- 
valued. There is one thing connected with him which must ever 
prevent any one of right feelings from esteeming him ; I allude to 
his incessant abuse of his native land, a land, too, which had 
made him its idol.” 

“ Ah ! you are a great patriot, I know,” said Frank. “ Come, as 
you are fond of patriots, I will show you the patriot, par excellence .” 

“If you mean Eolus Jones,” said I, “you need not trouble 
yourself; I have seen him already.” 

“ I don’t mean him,” said Frank. “ By-the-bye, he came to 
me the other day to condole with me, as he said, on the woes of 
my bleeding country. Before he left me he made me bleed, for 
he persuaded me to lend him a guinea. No, I don’t mean him, 
nor any one of his stamp ; I mean an Irish patriot, one who thinks 
he can show his love for his country in no better way than by 
beating the English.” 

“ Beating the English ? ” said I ; “ I should like to see him.” 

Whereupon taking me by the arm, Francis Ardry conducted 
me through various alleys, till we came to a long street which 
seemed to descend towards the south. 

“ What street is this ? ” said I, when we had nearly reached the 
bottom. 

“ It is no street at all,” said my friend ; “ at least it is not 
called one in this city of Cockaine ; it is a lane, even that of St. 
Martin ; and that church that you see there is devoted to him. 
It is one of the few fine churches in London. Malheur eusement } 
as the French say, it is so choked up by buildings that it is # 

lr The text is : “ Malheur , as the French say, that it is so choked ”. 


1824.] 


“PORTOBELLO” 


233 


impossible to see it at twenty yards’ distance from any side. 
Whenever I get into Parliament, one of my first motions shall 
be to remove some twenty score of the aforesaid buildings. But I 
think we have arrived at the house to which I wished to conduct 
you.” 

“Yes, I see, Portobello .” 

About twenty yards from the church, on the left-hand side of 
the street or lane, was a mean-looking house having something of 
the appearance of a fifth-rate inn. Over the door was written in 
large characters the name of the haven, where the bluff old Vernon 
achieved his celebrated victory over the whiskered Dons. Enter- 
ing a passage on one side of which was a bar-room, Ardry enquired 
of a middle-aged man who stood in it in his shirt-sleeves, whether 
the captain was at home. Having received for an answer a surly 
kind of “ yes,” he motioned me to follow him, and after reaching 
the end of the passage, which was rather dark, he began to ascend 
a narrow, winding stair. About half-way up he suddenly stopped, 
for at that moment a loud, hoarse voice from a room above 
commenced singing a strange kind of ditty. 

“The captain is singing,” said Frank, “and, as I live, 
‘ Carolan’s Receipt for drinking whisky ’. Let us wait a moment 
till he has done, as he would probably not like to be interrupted 
in his melody.” 


CAROLAN’S RECEIPT. 

‘ Whether sick or sound my receipt was the same, 

To Stafford I stepp’d and better became ; 

A visit to Stafford’s bounteous hall 
Was the best receipt of all, of all. 

‘ Midnight fell round us and drinking found us, 

At morn again flow’d his whisky ; 

By his fwsight he knew ’twas the only way true 
To keep Torlough alive and frisky. 

‘ Now deep healths quaffing, now screeching now laughing, 

At my harp-strings tearing, and to madness nearing : 

That was the life I led, and which I yet do ; 

For I will swear it, and to all the world declare it, 

If you would fain be happy, you must aye be ’ 

“ Foul ” said Francis Ardry, suddenly pushing open the door 
of the room from which the voice proceeded ; “ That’s the word, 
I think, captain.” 

“ By my shoul, Mr. Francis Ardry, you enter with considerable 
abruptness, sir,” said one of two men who were seated smoking at 
a common deal table, in a large ruinous apartment in which we 


234 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824* 


now found ourselves. “ You enter with considerable abruptness, 
sir,” he repeated ; “ do you know on whom you are intruding ? ” 

“ Perfectly well,” said Francis ; “lam standing in the presence 
of Torlough O’ Donahue, formerly captain in a foreign service, and 
at present resident in London for the express purpose of beating 
all the English ” 

“ And some of the Irish too, sir, if necessary,” said the captain 
with a menacing look. “ I do not like to be broken in upon as if 
I were a nobody. However, as you are here, I suppose I must 
abide by it. I am not so little of a gentleman as to be deficient 
in the rudiments of hospitality. You may both of you sit down 
and make yourselves aisy.” 

But this was no such easy matter, the only two chairs in the 
room being occupied by the captain and the other. I therefore 
leaned against the door, while Ardry strolled about the apartment. 

The captain might be about forty. His head was immensely 
large, his complexion ruddy, and his features rough, coarse and 
strongly expressive of sullenness and ill-nature. He was about 
the middle height, with a frame clumsily made, but denoting 
considerable strength. He wore a blue coat, the lappets of 
which were very narrow, but so long that they nearly trailed upon 
the ground. Yellow leathern breeches unbuttoned at the knee, 
dazzling white cotton stockings and shoes with buckles, adorned 
his nether man. 

His companion, who was apparently somewhat older than 
himself, was dressed in a coarse greatcoat and a glazed hat 
exactly resembling those worn by hackneys. He had a quiet, 
droll countenance, very much studded with carbuncles, and his 
nose, which was very long, was of so hooked a description that 
the point of it nearly entered his mouth. 

“Who may this friend of yours be?” said the captain to 
Ardry, after staring at me. 

“A young gentleman much addicted to philosophy, poetry 
and philology.” 

“Is he Irish?” 

“ No, he is English ; but I have heard him say that he has a 
particular veneration for Ireland.” 

“ He has, has he ; by my shoul, then, all the better for him. 
If he had not . . . Can he fight?” 

“ I think I have heard him say that he can use his fists when 
necessary.” 

“ He can, can he ? by my shoul, I should like to try him. 
But first of all I have another customer to dispose of. I have 


1824.] 


BISHOP SHARPE. 


ns 


just determined to send a challenge to Bishop Sharpe whom 
these English call the best of their light weights . 1 Perhaps he 
is, but if I don’t ” 

“ The Bishop is a good man,” interrupted his companion of 
the greatcoat and glazed hat, in a strange croaky tone. 

“Is it a good man that you are calling him?” said the 
captain. “Well, be it so; the more merit in my baiting him.” 

“That’s true; but you have not beat him yet,” said his 
companion. 

“Not bate him yet? Is not there the paper that I am going 
to write the challenge on ? and is not there the pen and the ink 
that I am going to write it with? and is not there yourself, John 
Turner, my hired servant, that’s bound to take him the challenge 
when ’tis written?” 

“That’s true; here we are all four — pen, ink, paper, and John 
Turner; but there’s something else wanted to beat Bishop Sharpe.” 

“What else is wanted ?” shouted the captain. 

“ Why, to be a better man than he.” 

“ And ain’t I that man ? ” 

“ Why, that remains to be seen.” 

“Ain’t I an Irishman?” 

“Yes, I believe you to be an Irishman. No one, to hear you 
talk, but would think you that, or a Frenchman. I was in 
conversation with one of that kind the other day. Hearing 
him talk rather broken, I asked him what countryman he was. 
•' What countryman are you ? ’ said I. — ‘ I ? ’ said he, ‘ I am one 
Frenchman,’ and then he looked at me as if I should sink into 
the earth under his feet. — * You are not the better for that,’ said 
I; ‘you are not the better for being a Frenchman, I suppose,’ 
said I. — ‘ How ? ’ said he ; ‘I am of the great nation which has 
won all the battles in the world.’ — ‘ All the battles in the world ? ’ 
said I. ‘ Did you ever hear of the battle of Waterloo ? ’ said I. You 
should have seen how blue he looked. * Ah ! you can’t get over 
that,’ said I ; ‘ you can’t get over the battle of Waterloo/ said I.” 

“Is it the battle of Waterloo you are speaking of, you spal- 
peen? And to one who was there, an Irish cavalier, fighting in 
the ranks of the brave French ! By the powers ! if the sacrifice 
would not be too great, I would break this pipe in your face.” 

“ Why, as to that, two can play at that,” said he of the glazed 
hat, smoking on very composedly. “I remember I once said so 
to young Cope — you have heard of young Cope. I was vally to 
young Cope and servant of all work twenty year ago at Brighton. 

1 “ Bishop Sharpe,” a pugilist of that name and time. 


236 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


So one morning after I had carried up his boots, he rings the 
bell as if in a great fury. ‘ Do you call these boots clean ? ’ 
said young Cope, as soon as I showed myself at the door. * Do 
you call these clean?’ said he, flinging one boot at my head, 
and then the other. ‘Two can play at that game,’ said I, 
catching the second boot in my hand, ‘ two can play at that 
game,’ said I, aiming it at young Cope’s head — not that I meant 
to fling it at young Cope’s head, for young Cope was a gentleman; 
yes, a gentleman, captain, though not Irish, for he paid me my 
wages.” 

These last words seemed to have a rather quieting effect upon 
the captain, who at the commencement of the speech had grasped 
his pipe somewhat below the bowl and appeared by his glance to 
be meditating a lunge at the eye of his eccentric servant, who 
continued smoking and talking with great composure. Suddenly 
replacing the end of his pipe in his mouth, the man turned to me, 
and in a tone of great hauteur said : — 

“ So, sir, I am told by your friend there, that you are fond of 
the humanities.” 

“ Yes,” said I, “ I am very fond of humanity, and was always a 
great admirer of the lines of Gay : — 

‘ Cowards are cruel, but the brave 
Love mercy and delight to save 

“ By my shoul, sir, it’s an ignorant beast I’m thinking ye. It 
was not humanity I was speaking of, but the humanities , which 
have nothing at all to do with it.” Then turning to Frank, he 
demanded, “Was it not yourself, Mr. Francis Ardry, that told 
me, when you took the liberty of introducing this person to me, 
that he was addicted to philosophy, prosody, and what not ? ” 

“To be sure I did,” said Frank. 

“Well, sir, and are not those the humanities, or are you as 
ignorant as your friend here ? ” 

“You pretend to be a humanist, sir,” said he to me, “but I 
will take the liberty of showing your utter ignorance. Now, sir, 
do you venture to say that you can answer a question connected 
with the Irish humanities ? ” 

“ I must hear it first,” said I. 

“ You must hear it, must ye? Then you shall hear it to your 
confusion. A pretty humanist I will show you to be ; open your 
ears, sir ! ” — 

* Triuir ata se air mo bhas \ l 

1 Three are after my death. 


1824.] 


IRISH POETRY. 


2 37 


“ Now, sir, what does the poet mean by saying that there 
are three looking after his death ? Whom does he allude to, sir ? 
hey? ” 

“The devil, the worms, and his children,” said I, “who are 
looking after three things which they can’t hope to get before he 
is dead — the children his property, the worms his body, and the 
devil his soul, as the man says a little farther on.” 

The captain looked at me malignantly. 

“ Now, sir, are you not ashamed of yourself? ” 

“ Wherefore ? ” said I. “ Have I not given the meaning of the 
poem ? ” 

“You have expounded the elegy, sir, fairly enough ; I find no 
fault with your interpretation. What I mean is this : Are you not 
ashamed to be denying your country ? ” 

“ I never denied my country ; I did not even mention it. 
My friend there told you I was an Englishman, and he spoke the 
truth.” 

“Sorrow befall you for saying so,” said the captain. “ But I 
see how it is, you have been bought ; yes, sir, paid money, to deny 
your country ; but such has ever been the policy of the English ; 
they can’t bate us, so they buy us. Now here’s myself. No 
sooner have I sent this challenge to Bishop Sharpe by the hands 
of my hired servant, than I expect to have a hundred offers to let 
myself be beat. What is that you say, sir ? ” said he, addressing 
his companion who had uttered a kind of inaudible sound — “ No 
hopes of that, did you say ? Do you think that I could be bate 
without allowing myself to be bate ? By the powers ! — but you 
are beneath my notice.” 

“ Well, sir,” said he, fixing his eyes on me, “ though you have 
cheek enough to deny your own country, I trust you have not 
enough to deny the merit of the elegy. What do you think of the 
elegy, sir?” 

“ I think it very sorry stuff,” said I. 

“ Hear him ! ” said the captain looking about him. “ But he 
has been bought, paid money, to deny his own country and all 
that belongs to it. Well,- sir, what do you think of Carolan, 
Carolan the Great ? What do you think of his Receipt, 
sir ? ” 

“ I think it very sorry stuff, too.” 

“Very well, sir, very well; but I hope to make you give me 
a receipt for all this before you leave. One word more. I 
suppose ou’ll next deny that we have any poetry or music at 
all.” 


238 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


“ Far be it from me to say any such thing. There is one song 
connected with Ireland which I have always thought very fine, and 
likewise the music that accompanies it.” 

“ I am glad to hear it, sir ; there is one piece of Irish poetry 
and music which meets your approbation ! Pray name the piece, 
sir.” 

“ Croppies Lie Down /” 

The captain sprang to his feet like one electrified. 

“ What, sir ? ” said he. 

“ Croppies Lie Down ! ” 

The captain dashed his pipe to shivers against the table ; then 
tucking up the sleeves of his coat, he advanced to within a yard of 
me, and pushing forward his head somewhat in the manner of a 
bull-dog when about to make a spring, he said in a tone of 
suppressed fury : “ I think I have heard of that song before, sir ; 
but nobody ever yet cared to sing it to me. I should admire to 
hear from your lips what it is. Perhaps you will sing me a line or 
two.” 

“ With great pleasure,” said I : — 

1 There are many brave rivers run into the sea, 

But the best of them all is Boyne water for me ; 

There Croppies were vanquished and terrified fled, 

With Jamie the runagate king at their head. 

When crossing the ford 
In the name of the Lord, 

The conqueror brandished his conquering sword ; 

Then down, down, Croppies lie down ! ’ 

“ By the powers ! a very pretty song, and much obliged am I 
to ye for singing it, more especially as it gives me an opportunity 
of breaking your head, you long-limbed descendant of a Boyne 
trooper. You must deny your country, must ye? ye dingy 
renegade ! — the black North, but old Ireland still. But here’s 

Connemara for ye — take this — and this Och, murther! — 

What have we got here . . . ? ” 

“Who and what is this O’Donahue?” said I to Frank Ardry 
after we had descended into the street. 

“ An ill-tempered Irishman,” said Frank, “ the most disagree- 
able animal alive, once a rare bird on the earth. His father, after 
having taught him some Irish and less Latin, together with an 
immoderate hatred of the English, sent him abroad at the age of 
sixteen to serve the French. In that service he continued until 
the time of the general peace, when he quitted it for the Austrian. 


1824.] 


“COACH, YOUR HONOUR ? ,} 


239 


I first became acquainted with him at Vienna, where he bore the 
rank of captain, but had the character of a notorious gambler. 
It was owing, I believe, to his gambling practices that he was 
eventually obliged to leave the Austrian service. He has been 
in London about six months, where he supports himself as best 
he can, chiefly, I believe, by means of the gaming-table. His 
malignity against England has of late amounted almost to insanity, 
and has been much increased by the perusal of Irish newspapers 
which abound with invective against England and hyperbolical 
glorification of Ireland and the Irish. The result is that he has 
come to the conclusion that the best way for him to take revenge 
for the injuries of Ireland and to prove the immense superiority 
of the Irish over the English will be to break the head of Bishop 
Sharpe in the ring.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ I do not see why the dispute, if dispute there 
be, should not be settled in the ring.” 

“ Nor I either,” said Frank, “ and I could wish my countrymen 
to choose none other than O’Donahue. With respect to England 
and Bishop Sharpe . . .” 

At that moment a voice sounded close by me : “ Coach, your 
honour, coach? Will carry you anywhere you like.” I stopped, 
and lo the man of the greatcoat and glazed hat stood by my side. 

“ What do you want ? ” said I. “ Have you brought me any 
message from your master?” 

“ Master ? What master ? Oh ! you mean the captain. I 
left him rubbing his head. No, I don’t think you will hear any- 
thing from him in a hurry ; he has had enough of you. All I 
wish to know is whether you wish to ride.” 

“ I thought you were the captain’s servant.” 

“ Yes, I look after the spavined roan on which he rides about 
the Park, but he’s no master of mine — he doesn’t pay me. Who 
cares? I don’t serve him for money. I like to hear his talk 
about Bishop Sharpe and beating the English — Lord help him ! 
Now, where do you wish to go ? Any coach you like — any coach- 
man — and nothing to pay.” 

“ Why do you wish me to ride ? ” said I. 

“ Why, for serving out as you did that poor silly captain. I 
think what he got will satisfy him for a time. No more talk about 
Bishop Sharpe for a week at least. Come, come along, both of 
you. The stand is close by, and I’ll drive you myself.” 

“ Will you ride? ” said I to Francis Ardry. 

“ No,” said Frank. 

“Then come alone. Where shall I drive you?” 

“To London Bridge.”] 


CHAPTER XL. 


So I went to London Bridge, and again took my station on the 
spot by the booth where I had stood on the former occasion. 
The booth, however, was empty ; neither the apple* woman nor 
her stall were to be seen. I looked over the balustrade upon the 
river ; the tide was now, as before, rolling beneath the arch with 
frightful impetuosity. As I gazed upon the eddies of the whirlpool, 
I thought within myself how soon human life would become 
extinct there ; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be 
over. When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse 
— a fascination : I had resisted it — I did not plunge into it. At 
present I felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was 
of a different kind ; it proceeded from a loathing of life. I looked 
wistfully at the eddies — what had I to live for ? — what, indeed ! 
I thought of Brandt and Struensee, and Yeoman Patch — should I 
yield to the impulse — why not? My eyes were fixed on the 
eddies. All of a sudden I shuddered ; I thought I saw heads in 
the pool ; human bodies wallowing confusedly ; eyes turned up 

to heaven with hopeless horror ; was that water, or Where 

was the impulse now ? I raised my eyes from the pool, I looked 
no more upon it — I looked forward, far down the stream in the 
distance. “Ha! what is that? I thought I saw a kind of Fata 
Morgana, green meadows, waving groves, a rustic home; but in 
the far distance — I stared— I stared — a Fata Morgana — it was 
gone ” 

I left the balustrade and walked to the farther end of the 
bridge, where I stood for some time contemplating the crowd ; I 
then passed over to the other side with the intention of returning 
home ; just half-way over the bridge, in a booth immediately 
opposite the one in which I had formerly beheld her, sat my 
friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up behind her stall. 

“Well, mother,” said I, “how are you?” The old woman 
lifted her head with a startled look. 

“ Don’t you know me?” said I. 

Yes, I think I do. Ah, yes,” said she, as her features 
(240 ) 


i8z 4 -] 


WICKED BOYS. 


*4* 


beamed with recollection, “ I know you, dear ; you are the young 
lad that gave me the tanner. Well, child, got anything to sell ? ” 

“ Nothing at all,” said I. 

“ Bad luck ? ” 

“Yes,” said I, “bad enough, and ill usage.” 

“Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, 
better luck next time ; I am glad to see you.” 

“Thank you,” said I, sitting down on the stone bench; “ I 
thought you had left the bridge — why have you changed your 

aide ? ” 

The old woman shook. 

“ What is the matter with you,” said I, “ are you ill ? ” 

“ No, child, no ; only ” 

“ Only what ? Any bad news of your son ? ” 

“No child, no; nothing about my son. Only low, child — 
every heart has its bitters.” 

“That’s true,” said I; “well, I don’t want to know your 
sorrows; come, where’s the book?” 

The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent 
herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than 
before. “ Book, child, what book ? ” 

“ Why, blessed Mary, to be sure.” 

“Oh, that; I ha’n’t got it, child — I have lost it, have left it 
at home.” 

“Lost it,” said I; “left it at home — what do you mean? 
Come, let me have it.” 

“ I ha’n’t got it, child.” 

“ I believe you have got it under your cloak.” 

“Don’t tell any one, dear; don’t — don’t,” and the apple- 
woman burst into tears. 

“ What’s the matter with you? ” said I, staring at her. 

“You want to take my book from me?” 

“Not I, I care nothing about it ; keep it, if you like, only 
tell me what’s the matter? ” 

“Why, all about that book.” 

“ The book?” 

“Yes, they wanted to take it from me.” 

“Who did?” 

“ Why, some wicked boys. I’ll tell you all about it. Eight 
or ten days ago, I sat behind my stall, reading my book ; all of 
a sudden I felt it snatched from my hand ; up I started, and see 
three rascals of boys grinning at me ; one of them held the book 
in his hand. ‘What book is this?’ said he, grinning at it. 

16 


242 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


‘What do you want with my book?’ said I, clutching at it over 
my stall, ‘ give me my book.’ ‘ What do you want a book for ? ’ 
said he, holding it back ; ‘ I have a good mind to fling it into the 
Thames.’ ‘ Give me my book,’ I shrieked ; and, snatching at it, 
I fell over my stall, and all my fruit was scattered about. Off ran 
the boys — off ran the rascal with my book. Oh dear, I thought 
I should have died; up I got, however, and ran after them as 
well as I could. I thought of my fruit ; but I thought more of my 
book. I left my fruit and ran after my book. ‘ My book ! my 
book ! ’ I shrieked, ‘ murder ! theft ! robbery ! * I was near being 
crushed under the wheels of a cart ; but I didn’t care — I followed 
the rascals. ‘ Stop them ! stop them ! ’ I ran nearly as fast as they 
— they couldn’t run very fast on account of the crowd. At last 
some one stopped the rascal, whereupon he turned round, and 
flinging the book at me, it fell into the mud ; well, I picked it up 
and kissed it, all muddy as it was. ‘ Has he robbed you ? ’ said 
the man. ‘ Robbed me, indeed ; why, he had got my book.’ 

* Oh, your book,’ said the man, and laughed, and let the rascal 
go. Ah, he might laugh, but ” 

“Well, go on.” 

“ My heart beats so. Well, I went back to my booth and 
picked up my stall and my fruits, what I could find of them. I 
couldn’t keep my stall for two days, I got such a fright, and when 
I got round I couldn’t bide the booth where the thing had 
happened, so I came over to the other side. Oh, the rascals, if 
I could but see them hanged.” 

“ For what.” 

“ Why for stealing my book.” 

“ I thought you didn’t dislike stealing, that you were ready 
to buy things — there was your son, you know ” 

“ Yes, to be sure.” 

“ He took things.” 

“ To be sure he did.” 

“ But you don’t like a thing of yours to be taken.” 

“ No, that’s quite a different thing ; what’s stealing hand- 
kerchiefs, and that kind of thing, to do with taking my book; 
there’s a wide difference — don’t you see ? ” 

“Yes, I see.” 

“Do you, dear? well, bless your heart, I’m glad you do. 
Would you like to look at the book ? ” 

“ Well, I think I should.” 

“Honour bright?” said the apple- woman, looking me in the 
eyes. 


1 824*] 


HONOUR BRIGHT? 


243 


“ Honour bright,” said I, looking the apple-woman in the eyes. 
“ Well then, dear, here it is,” said she, taking it from under 
her cloak ; “ read it as long as you like, only get a little farther 

into the booth. Don't sit so near the edge — you might ” 

I went deep into the booth, and the apple-woman, bringing 
her chair round, almost confronted me. I commenced reading 
the book, and was soon engrossed by it; hours passed away, 
once or twice I lifted up my eyes, the apple- woman was still 
confronting me : at last my eyes began to ache, whereupon I 
returned the book to the apple-woman, and giving her another 
tanner, walked away. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


Time passed away, and with it the Review, which, contrary to 
the publisher’s expectation, did not prove a successful speculation. 
About four months after the period of its birth it expired, as all 
Reviews must for which there is no demand. Authors had 
ceased to send their publications to it, and, consequently, to 
purchase it ; for I have already hinted that it was almost entirely 
supported by authors of a particular class, who expected to see 
their publications foredoomed to immortality in its pages. The 
behaviour of these authors towards this unfortunate publication I 
can attribute to no other cause than to a report which was in- 
dustriously circulated, namely, that the Review was low, and that 
to be reviewed in it was an infallible sign that one was a low 
person, who could be reviewed nowhere else. So authors took 
fright ; and no wonder, for it will never do for an author to be 
considered low. Homer himself has never yet entirely recovered 
from the injury he received by Lord Chesterfield’s remark, that 
the speeches of his heroes were frequently exceedingly low. 

So the Review ceased, and the reviewing corps no longer 
existed as such ; they forthwith returned to their proper avocations 
— the editor to compose tunes on his piano, and to the task of 
disposing of the remaining copies of his Quintilian — the inferior 
members to working for the publisher, being to a man dependants 
of his; one, to composing Jairy tales; another, to collecting 
miracles of Popish saints ; and a third, Newgate lives and trials. 
Owing to the bad success of the Review, the publisher became 
more furious than ever. My money was growing short, and I 
one day asked him to pay me for my labours in the deceased 
publication. 

“ Sir,” said the publisher, “ what do you want the money 
for?” 

“Merely to live on,” I replied; “it is very difficult to live 
in this town without money.” 

“How much money did you bring with you to town?” 
demanded the publisher. 

C244) 


824.] 


BREAD AND CHEESE. 


245 


“ Some twenty or thirty pounds,” I replied. 

“ And you have spent it already? ” 

“No,” said I, “not entirely; but it is fast disappearing.” 

“Sir,” said the publisher, “I believe you to be extravagant; 
yes, sir, extravagant ! ” 

“ On what grounds do you suppose me to be so? ” 

“ Sir,” said the publisher, “you eat meat.” 

“Yes,” said I, “ I eat meat sometimes : what should I eat? ” 

“Bread, sir,” said the publisher; “bread and cheese.” 

“ So I do, sir, when I am disposed to indulge ; but I cannot 
often afford it — it is very expensive to dine on bread and cheese, 
especially when one is fond of cheese, as I am. My last bread 
and cheese dinner cost me fourteen pence. There is drink, 
sir ; with bread and cheese one must drink porter, sir.” 

“ Then, sir, eat bread — bread alone. As good men as yourself 
have eaten bread alone; they have been glad to get it, sir. If 
with bread and cheese you must drink porter, sir, with bread 
alone you can, perhaps, drink water, sir.” 

However, I got paid at last for my writings in the Review, not, 
it is true, in the current coin of the realm, but in certain bills; 
there were two of them, one payable at twelve, and the other at 
eighteen months after date. It was a long time before I could 
turn these bills to any account ; at last I found a person who, at 
a discount of only thirty per cent., consented to cash them ; not, 
however, without sundry grimaces, and, what was still more galling, 
holding, more than once, the unfortunate papers high in air 
between his forefinger and thumb. So ill, indeed, did I like 
this last action, that I felt much inclined to snatch them away. 
I restrained myself, however, for I remembered that it was very 
difficult to live without money, and that, if the present person did 
not discount the bills, I should probably find no one else that 
would. 

But if the treatment which I had experienced from the 
publisher, previous to making this demand upon him, was difficult 
to bear, that which I subsequently underwent was far more so; 
his great delight seemed to consist in causing me misery and 
mortification ; if, on former occasions, he was continually sending 
me in quest of lives and trials difficult to find, he now was con- 
tinually demanding lives and trials which it was impossible to 
find, the personages whom he mentioned never having lived, nor 
consequently been tried. Moreover, some of my best lives and 
trials which I had corrected and edited with particular care, and 
on which I prided myself no little, he caused to be cancelled after 


246 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


they had passed through the press. Amongst these was the life 
of “ Gentleman Harry “ They are drugs, sir,” said the publisher, 
“ drugs ; that life of Harry Simms has long been the greatest drug 
in the calendar — has it not, Taggart?” 

Taggart made no answer save by taking a pinch of snuff. 
The reader has, I hope, not forgotten Taggart, whom I mentioned 
whilst giving an account of my first morning’s visit to the publisher. 
I beg Taggart’s pardon for having been so long silent about him; 
but he was a very silent man — yet there was much in Taggart — 
and Taggart had always been civil and kind to me in his peculiar 
way. 

“Well, young gentleman,” said Taggart to me one morning, 
when we chanced to be alone a few days after the affair of the 
cancelling, “ how do you like authorship ? ” 

“I scarcely call authorship the drudgery I am engaged in,” 
said I. 

“What do you call authorship?” said Taggart. 

“ I scarcely know,” said I ; “ that is, I can scarcely express 
what I think it.” 

“Shall I help you out?” said Taggart, turning round his 
chair, and looking at me. 

“ If you like,” said I. 

“ To write something grand,” said Taggart, taking snuff ; “ to 
be stared at — lifted on people’s shoulders ” 

“Well,” said I, “that is something like it.” 

Taggart took snuff. “Well,” said he, “why don’t you write 
something grand ? ” 

“ I have,” said I. 

“What?” said Taggart. 

“ Why,” said I, “ there are those ballads.” 

Taggart took snuff. 

“ And those wonderful versions from Ab Gwilym.” 

Taggart took snuff again. 

“ You seem to be very fond of snuff,” said I, looking at him 
angrily. 

Taggart tapped his box. 

“ Have you taken it long ? ” 

“ Three-and-twenty years.” 

“ What snuff do you take ? ” 

“Universal mixture.” 

“ And you find it of use ? ” 

Taggart tapped his box. 

“In what respect?” said I. 


1824.] 


TAGGART. 


247 


“ In many — there is nothing like it to get a man through ; 
but for snuff I should scarcely be where I am now.” 

“ Have you been long here? ” 

“ Three-and-twenty years.” 

“ Dear me,” said I ; “ and snuff brought you through ? Give 
me a pinch — pah, I don’t like it,” and I sneezed. 

“ Take another pinch,” said Taggart. 

“No,” said I, “ I don’t like snuff.” 

“ Then you will never do for authorship — at least for this 
kind.” 

“ So I begin to think — what shall I do ? ” 

Taggart took snuff. 

“You were talking of a great work — what shall it be? ” 
Taggart took snuff. 

“ Do you think I could write one? ” 

Taggart uplifted his two forefingers as if to tap, he did not, 
however. 

“ It would require time,” said I, with half a sigh. 

Taggart tapped his box. 

“ A great deal of time ; I really think that my ballads ” 

Taggart took snuff. 

“If published would do me credit. I’ll make an effort, and 
offer them to some other publisher.” 

Taggart took a double quantity of snuff. 


CHAPTER XLII. 


Occasionally I called on Francis Ardry. This young gentleman 
resided in handsome apartments in the neighbourhood of a 
fashionable square, kept a livery servant, and upon the whole, 
lived in very good style. Going to see him one day, between 
one and two, I was informed by the servant that his master was 
engaged for the moment, but that, if I pleased to wait a few 
minutes, I should find him at liberty. Having told the man that 
I had no objection, he conducted me into a small apartment 
which served as antechamber to a drawing-room ; the door of 
this last being half-open, I could see Francis Ardry at the farther 
end, speechifying and gesticulating in a very impressive manner. 
The servant, in some confusion, was hastening to close the door, 
but, ere he could effect his purpose, Francis Ardry, who had 
caught a glimpse of me, exclaimed, “Come in — come in by all 
means,” and then proceeded, as before, speechifying and ges- 
ticulating. Filled with some surprise, I obeyed his summons. 

On entering the room I perceived another individual to whom 
Francis Ardry appeared to be addressing himself ; this other was 
a short, spare man of about sixty ; his hair was of a badger grey, 
and his face was covered with wrinkles — without vouchsafing me 
a look, he kept his eye, which was black and lustrous, fixed full 
on Francis Ardry, as if paying the deepest attention to his 
discourse. All of a sudden, however, he cried with a sharp, 
cracked voice, “that won’t do, sir; that won’t do — more vehem- 
ence — your argument is at present particularly weak ; therefore, 
more vehemence— you must confuse them, stun them, stultify 
them, sir and, at each of these injunctions, he struck the back of 
his right hand sharply against the palm of the left. “ Good, sir — 
good ! ” he occasionally uttered, in the same sharp, cracked tone, 
as the voice of Francis Ardry became more and more vehement. 
“Infinitely good!” he exclaimed, as Francis Ardry raised his 
voice to the highest pitch; “and now, sir, abate ; let the tempest 
of vehemence decline — gradually, sir ; not too fast. Good, sir — 
very good ! ” as the voice of Francis Ardry declined gradually in 


1824.] 


THE ELOCUTIONIST. 


249 


vehemence. “ And now a little pathos, sir — try them with a little 
pathos. That won’t do, sir — that won’t do,” — as Francis Ardry 
made an attempt to become pathetic, — “ that will never pass for 
pathos — with tones and gesture of that description you will never 
redress the wrongs of your country. Now, sir, observe my gestures, 
and pay attention to the tone of my voice, sir.” 

Thereupon, making use of nearly the same terms which 
Francis Ardry had employed, the individual in black uttered 
several sentences in tones and with gestures which were intended 
to express a considerable degree of pathos, though it is possible that 
some people would have thought both the one and the other highly 
ludicrous. After a pause, Francis recommenced imitating the 
tones and the gestures of his monitor in the most admirable 
manner. Before he had proceeded far, however, he burst into 
a fit of laughter, in which I should, perhaps, have joined, provided 
it were ever my wont to laugh. “ Ha, ha ! ” said the other, good 
humouredly, “you are laughing at me. Well, well, I merely 
wished to give you a hint ; but you saw very well what I meant ; 
upon the whole, I think you improve. But I must now go, having 
two other pupils to visit before four.” 

Then taking from the table a kind of three-cornered hat, and a 
cane headed with amber, he shook Francis Ardry by the hand; 
and, after glancing at me for a moment, made me a half-bow, 
attended with a strange grimace, and departed. 

“ Who is that gentleman ? ” said I to Francis Ardry as soon as 
we were alone. 

“ Oh, that is ” said Frank smiling, “ the gentleman who 

gives me lessons in elocution.” 

“ And what need have you of elocution ? ” 

“ Oh, I merely obey the commands of my guardians,” said 

Francis, “ who insist that I should, with the assistance of 

qualify myself for Parliament ; for which they do me the honour 
to suppose that I have some natural talent. I dare not disobey them, 
for, at the present moment, I have particular reasons for wishing 
to keep on good terms with them.” 

“ But,” said I, “ you are a Roman Catholic, and I thought 
that persons of your religion were excluded from Parliament?” 

“ Why, upon that very thing the whole matter hinges ; people 
of our religion are determined to be no longer excluded from 
Parliament, but to have a share in the government of the nation. 
Not that I care anything about the matter ; I merely obey the 

* MS. (apparently) “ L but see p. 276. 


250 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


will of my guardians ; my thoughts are fixed on something better 
than politics.” 

“I understand you,” said I ; “dog-fighting — well, I can easily 
conceive that to some minds dog-fighting ” 1 

“ I was not thinking of dog-fighting,” said Francis Ardry, 
interrupting me. 

“ Not thinking of dog-fighting ! ” I ejaculated. 

“ No,” said Francis Ardry, “ something higher and much more 
rational than dog-fighting at present occupies my thoughts.” 

“ Dear me,” said I, “ I thought I heard you say, that there 
was nothing like it ! ” 

“Like what?” said Francis Ardry. 

“ Dog-fighting, to be sure,” said I. 

“Pooh,” said Francis Ardry ; “who but the gross and unrefined 
care anything for dog-fighting? That which at present engages 
my waking and sleeping thoughts is love — divine love — there is 
nothing like that. Listen to me, I have a secret to confide to 
you.” 

And then Francis Ardry proceeded to make me his confidant. 
It appeared that he had had the good fortune to make the 
acquaintance of the most delightful young Frenchwoman imagin- 
able, Annette La Noire by name , 2 who had just arrived from her 
native country with the intention of obtaining the situation of 
governess in some English family ; a position which, on account 
of her many accomplishments, she was eminently qualified to fill. 
Francis Ardry had, however, persuaded her to relinquish her 
intention for the present, on the ground that, until she had 
become acclimated in England, her health would probably 
suffer from the confinement inseparable from the occupation in 
which she was desirous of engaging; he had, moreover — for it 
appeared that she was the most frank and confiding creature in 
the world- — succeeded in persuading her to permit him to hire for 
her a very handsome first floor in his own neighbourhood, and to 
accept a few inconsiderable presents in money and jewellery. “ I 
am looking out for a handsome gig and horse,” said Francis 
Ardry, at the conclusion of his narration ; “it were a burning 
shame that so divine a creature should have to go about a place 
like London on foot, or in a paltry hackney coach.” 

“But,” said I, “will not the pursuit of politics prevent your 
devoting much time to this fair lady ? ” 

1 MS., “ is quite as rational an amusement as politics ”, 

2 Le Noir in MS. A , and in Rom. Rye , app. 


EMANCIPATION. 


251 


1824.] 


“It will prevent me devoting all my time,” said Francis 
Ardry, “ as I gladly would ; but what can I do ? My guardians 
wish me to qualify myself for a political orator, and I dare not 
offend them by a refusal. If I offend my guardians, I should find 
it impossible — unless I have recourse to Jews and money-lenders 
— to support Annette, present her with articles of dress and 
jewellery, and purchase a horse and cabriolet worthy of conveying 
her angelic person through the streets of London.” 

After a pause, in which Francis Ardry appeared lost in 
thought, his mind being probably occupied with the subject of 
Annette, I broke silence by observing: “ So your fellow-religionists 
are really going to make a serious attempt to procure their 
emancipation?” 

“Yes,” said Francis Ardry starting from his reverie; “every- 
thing has been arranged ; even a leader has been chosen, at least 
for us of Ireland, upon the whole the most suitable man in the 
world for the occasion — a barrister of considerable talent, mighty 
voice, and magnificent impudence. With emancipation, liberty 
and redress for the wrongs of Ireland in his mouth, he is to 
force his way into the British House of Commons, dragging 
myself and others behind him — he will succeed, and when he is in 

he will cut a figure ; I have heard himself , 1 who has heard him 

speak, say that he will cut a figure.” 

“ And is 1 competent to judge ? ” I demanded. 

“Who but he?” said Francis Ardry; “no one questions his 
judgment concerning what relates to elocution. His fame on that 
point is so well established, that the greatest orators do not 

disdain occasionally to consult him ; C 2 himself, as I have 

been told, when anxious to produce any particular effect in the 
House, is in the habit of calling in 1 for consultation.” 

“ As to matter, or manner? ” said I. 

“Chiefly the latter,” said Francis Ardry, “though he is 
competent to give advice as to both, for he has been an orator in 
his day, and a leader of the people ; though he confessed to me 
that he was not exactly qualified to play the latter part — ‘ I want 
paunch/ said he.” 

“ It is not always indispensable,” said I ; “there is an orator 
in my town, a hunchback and watchmaker, without it, who not 
only leads the people, but the mayor too ; perhaps he has a 
succedaneum in his hunch ; but, tell me, is the leader of your 
movement in possession of that which wants ? ” 


'MS. 


or “T. 


2 MS., “ Canning”, 


252 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


“No more deficient in it than in brass,” said Francis Ardry. 

“Well,” said I, “whatever his qualifications may be, I wish 
him success in the cause which he has taken up — I love religious 
liberty.” 

“ We shall succeed,” said Francis Ardry ; “ John Bull upon 
the whole is rather indifferent on the subject, and then we are 
sure to be backed by the Radical party, who, to gratify their 
political prejudices, would join with Satan himself.” 

“There is one thing,” said I, “connected with this matter 
which surprises me — your own lukewarmness. Yes, making 
every allowance for your natural predilection for dog-fighting, and 
your present enamoured state of mind, your apathy at the 
commencement of such a movement is to me unaccountable.” 

“You would not have cause to complain of my indifference,” 
said Frank, “ provided I thought my country would be benefited 
by this movement ; but I happen to know the origin of it. The 
priests are the originators, ‘ and what country was ever benefited 
by a movement which owed its origin to them? ’ so says Voltaire, 
a page of whom I occasionally read. By the present move they 
hope to increase their influence, and to further certain designs 
which they entertain both with regard to this country and 
Ireland. I do not speak rashly or unadvisedly. A strange 
fellow — a half-Italian, half-English priest, — who was recom- 
mended to me by my guardians, partly as a spiritual, partly as a 
temporal guide — has let me into a secret or two ; he is fond of a 
glass of gin and water, and over a glass of gin and water cold, 
with a lump of sugar in it, he has been more communicative, 
perhaps, than was altogether prudent. Were I my own master, 
I would kick him, politics and religious movements, to a 
considerable distance. And now, if you are going away, do so 
quickly ; I have an appointment with Annette, and must make 
myself fit to appear before her.” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


By the month of October I had, in spite of all difficulties and 
obstacles, accomplished about two-thirds of the principal task 
which I had undertaken, the compiling of the Newgate lives ; I 
had also made some progress in translating the publisher’s 
philosophy into German. But about this time I began to see 
very clearly that it was impossible that our connection should 
prove of long duration ; yet, in the event of my leaving the big 
man, what other resource had I ? another publisher ? But what 
had I to offer ? There were my ballads, my Ab Gwilym ; but 
then I thought of Taggart and his snuff, his pinch of snuff. 
However, I determined to see what could be done, so I took my 
ballads under my arm, and went to various publishers ; some 
took snuff, others did not, but none took my ballads or Ab 
Gwilym, they would not even look at them. One asked me if I 
had anything else — he was a snuff-taker — I said yes ; and going 
home returned with my translation of the German novel, to which 
I have before alluded. After keeping it for a fortnight, he 
returned it to me on my visiting him, and, taking a pinch of 
snuff, told me it would not do. There were marks of snuff on 
the outside of the manuscript, which was a roll of paper bound 
with red tape, but there were no marks of snuff on the interior of 
the manuscript, from which I concluded that he had never 
opened it. 

I had often heard of one Glorious John, who lived at the 
western end of the town ; on consulting Taggart, he told me that 
it was possible that Glorious John would publish my ballads and 
Ab Gwilym, that is, said he, taking a pinch of snuff, provided 
you can see him ; so I went to the house where Glorious John 
resided, and a glorious house it was, but I could not see Glorious 
John. I called a dozen times, but I never could see Glorious 
John. Twenty years after, by the greatest chance in the world, 
I saw Glorious John, and sure enough Glorious John published 
my books, but they were different books from the first ; I never 
offered my ballads or Ab Gwilym to Glorious John. Glorious 


254 


LA VENGRO. 


[1824. 


John was no snuff-taker. He asked me to dinner, and treated 
me with superb Rhenish wine. Glorious John is now gone to 
his rest, but I — what was I going to say ? — the world will never 
forget Glorious John. 

So I returned to my last resource for the time then being — to 
the publisher, persevering doggedly in my labour. One day, on 
visiting the publisher, I found him stamping with fury upon 
certain fragments of paper. 

“Sir,” said he, “you know nothing of German; I have 
shown your translation of the first chapter of my Philosophy to 
several Germans : it is utterly unintelligible to them.” “ Did 
they see the Philosophy ? ” I replied. “ They did, sir, but they 
did not profess to understand English.” “No more do I,” I 
replied, “ if that Philosophy be English.” 

The publisher was furious — I was silent. For want of a pinch 
of snuff, I had recourse to something which is no bad substitute 
for a pinch of snuff to those who can’t take it, silent contempt ; 
at first it made the publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of 
snuff would; it, however, eventually calmed him, and he ordered 
me back to my occupations, in other words, the compilation. To 
be brief, the compilation was completed, I got paid in the usual 
manner, and forthwith left him. 

He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men ! 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


It was past mid-winter, and I sat on London Bridge, in 
company with the old apple-woman : she had just returned to 
the other side of the bridge to her place in the booth where I 
had originally found her. This she had done after repeated 
conversations with me ; “ she liked the old place best,” she said, 
which she would never have left but for the terror which she 
experienced when the boys ran away with her book. So I sat 
with her at the old spot, one afternoon past mid-winter, reading 
the book, of which I had by this time come to the last pages. I 
had observed that the old woman for some time past had shown 
much less anxiety about the book than she had been in the habit 
of doing. I was, however, not quite prepared for her offering to 
make me a present of it, which she did that afternoon; when, 
having finished it, I returned it to her, with many thanks for the 
pleasure and instruction I had derived from its perusal. “ You 
may keep it, dear,” said the old woman, with a sigh ; “ you may 
carry it to your lodging, and keep it for your own.” 

Looking at the old woman with surprise, I exclaimed : “ Is it 
possible that you are willing to part with the book which has 
been your source of comfort so long ? ” 

Whereupon the old woman entered into a long history, from 
which I gathered that the book had become distasteful to her ; 
she hardly ever opened it of late, she said, or if she did, it was 
only to shut it again ; also, that other things which she had been 
fond of, though of a widely different kind, were now distasteful to 
hejr: Porter and beef-steaks were no longer grateful to her patate, 
her present diet chiefly consisting of tea, and bread and butter. 

“ Ah,” said I, “ you have been ill, and when people are ill, 
they seldom like the things which give them pleasure when they 
are in health.” I learned, moreover, that she slept little at night, 
and had all kinds of strange thoughts; that as she lay awake 
many things connected with her youth, which she had quite 
forgotten, came into her mind. There were certain words that 
came into her mind the night before the last, which were con- 
tinually humming in her ears: I found that the words were, 
“ Thou shalt not steal ”. 


256 


LA VENGRO . 


[1825. 


On inquiring where she had first heard these words, I learned 
that she had read them at school, in a book called the primer ; 
to this school she had been sent by her mother, who was a poor 
widow, who followed the trade of apple-selling in the very spot 
where her daughter followed it now. It seems that the mother 
was a very good kind of woman, but quite ignorant of letters, the 
benefit of which she was willing to procure for her child; and 
at the school the daughter learned to read, and subsequently 
experienced the pleasure and benefit of letters, in being able to 
read the book which she found in an obscure closet of her 
mother’s house, and which had been her principal companion 
and comfort for many years of her life. 

But, as I have said before, she was now dissatisfied with 
the book, and with most other things in which she had taken 
pleasure ; she dwelt much on the words, “ Thou shalt not steal ” ; 
she had never stolen things herself, but then she had bought 
things which other people had stolen, and which she knew had 
been stolen ; and her dear son had been a thief, which he perhaps 
would not have been but for the example which she set him in 
buying things from characters, as she called them, who associated 
with her. 

On inquiring how she had become acquainted with these 
characters, I learned that times had gone hard with her ; that she 
had married, but her husband had died after a long sickness, 
which had reduced them to great distress; that her fruit trade 
was not a profitable one, and that she had bought and sold things 
which had been stolen to support herself and her son. That for 
a long time she supposed there was no harm in doing so, as her 
book was full of entertaining tales of stealing; but she now 
thought that the book was a bad book, and that learning to read 
was a bad thing ; her mother had never been able to read, but 
had died in peace, though poor. 

So here was a woman who attributed the vices and follies of 
her life to being able to read ; her mother, she said, who could 
not read, lived respectably, and died in peace ; and what was the 
essential difference between the mother and daughter, save that 
the latter could read? But for her literature she might in all 
probability have lived respectably and honestly, like her mother, 
and might eventually have died in peace, which at present she 
could scarcely hope to do. Education had failed to produce any 
good in this poor woman ; on the contrary, there could be little 
doubt that she had been injured by it. Then was education a 
bad thing ? Rousseau was of opinion that it was ; but Rousseau 


NECESSITY. 


257 


1825.] 


was a Frenchman, at least wrote in French, and I cared not the 
snap of my fingers for Rousseau. But education has certainly 
been of benefit in some instances; well, what did that prove, 
but that partiality existed in the management of the affairs of the 
world. If education was a benefit to some, why was it not a 
benefit to others ? Could some avoid abusing it, any more than 
others could avoid turning it to a profitable account ? I did not 
see how they could ; this poor simple woman found a book in 
her mother’s closet; a book, which was a capital book for those 
who could turn it to the account for which it was intended ; a 
book, from the perusal of which I felt myself wiser and better, 
but which was by no means suited to the intellect of this poor 
simple woman, who thought that it was written in praise of thieving ; 
yet she found it, she read it, and — and I felt myself getting into 
a maze ; what is right ? thought I ; what is wrong ? Do I exist ? 
Does the world exist ? if it does, every action is bound up with 
necessity. 

“ Necessity ! ” I exclaimed, and cracked my finger joints. 

“Ah, it is a bad thing,” said the old woman. 

“ What is a bad thing ? ” said I. 

“Why, to be poor, dear.” 

“You talk like a fool,” said I, “ riches and poverty are only 
different forms of necessity.” 

“You should not call me a fool, dear; you should not call 
your own mother a fool.” 

“You are not my mother,” said I. 

“Not your mother, dear? — no, no more I am; but your 
calling me fool put me in mind of my dear son, who often used 
to call me fool — and you just now looked as he sometimes did, 
with a blob of foam on your lip.” 

“After all, I don’t know that you are not my mother.” 

“ Don’t you, dear? I’m glad of it ; I wish you would make it 
out.” 

“ How should I make it out ? who can speak from his own 
knowledge as to the circumstances of his birth ? Besides, before 
attempting to establish our relationship, it would be necessary to 
prove that such people exist.” 

“What people, dear?” 

“You and I.” 

“ Lord, child, you are mad ; that book has made you so.” 

“Don’t abuse it,” said I; “the book is an excellent one, 
that is, provided it exists.” 

“ I wish it did not,” said the old woman ; but it shan’t long ; 

17 


25 & 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


I’ll burn it, or fling it into the river — the voices of night tell me 
to do so.” 

“Tell the voices,” said I, “that they talk nonsense; the 
book, if it exists, is a good book, it contains a deep moral ; have 
you read it all ? ” 

“ All the funny parts, dear ; all about taking things, and the 
manner it was done ; as for the rest, I could not exactly make it 
out.” 

“ Then the book is not to blame; I repeat that the book is a 
good book, and contains deep morality, always supposing that 
there is such a thing as morality, which is the same thing as 
supposing that there is anything at all.” 

“ Anything at all ! Why, a’n’t we here on this bridge, in my 
booth, with my stall and my ” 

“ Apples and pears, baked hot, you would say — I don’t know ; 
all is a mystery, a deep question. It is a question, and probably 
always will be, whether there is a world, and consequently apples 
and pears ; and, provided there be a world, whether that world 
be like an apple or a pear.” 

“ Don’t talk so, dear.” 

“ I won’t ; we will suppose that we all exist — world, ourselves, 
apples, and pears : so you wish to get rid of the book ? ” 

“ Yes, dear, I wish you would take it.” 

“ I have read it, and have no further use for it ; I do not need 
books : in a little time, perhaps, I shall not have a place wherein 
to deposit myself, far less books.” 

“ Then I will fling it into the river.” 

“ Don’t do that ; here, give it me. Now what shall I do with 
it ? you were so fond of it.” 

“ I am so no longer.” 

“ But how will you pass your time ? what will you read ? ” 

“ I wish I had never learned to read, or, if I had, that I had 
only read the books I saw at school : the primer or the other.” 

“ What was the other? ” 

“I think they called it the Bible : all about God, and Job, 
and Jesus.” 

“Ah, I know it.” 

“ You have read it? is it a nice book — all true ? ” 

“True, true— I don’t know what to say; but if the^world be 
true, and not all a lie, a fiction, I don’t see why the Bible, as they 
call it, should not be true. By-the-bye, what do you call Bible in 
your tongue, or, indeed, book of any kind ? as Bible merely means 
a book.” 7 


1825.] 


METAPHOR. 


259 


“ What do I call the Bible in my language, dear?” 

“ Yes, the language of those who bring you things.” 

“ The language of those who did, dear ; they bring them now 
no longer. They call me fool, as you did, dear, just now ; they 
call kissing the Bible, which means taking a false oath, smacking 
calf-skin.” 

“That’s metaphor,” said I, “English, but metaphorical; 
what an odd language ! So you would like to have a Bible, — 
shall I buy you one ? ” 

“lam poor, dear — no money since I left off the other trade.” 

“ Well, then, I’ll buy you one.” 

“ No, dear, no ; you are poor, and may soon want the money ; 
but if you can take me one conveniently on the sly, you know — 
I think you may, for, as it is a good book, I suppose there can be 
no harm in taking it.” 

“ That will never do,” said I, “ more especially as I should be 
sure to be caught, not having made taking of things my trade; 
but I’ll tell you what I’ll do — try and exchange this book of yours 
for a Bible ; who knows for what great things this same book of 
yours may serve ? ” 

“ Well, dear,” said the old woman, “ do as you please ; I 
should like to see the — what do you call it? — Bible, and to read 
it, as you seem to think it true.” 

“ Yes,” said I, “ seem ; that is the way to express yourself in 
this maze of doubt — I seem to think — these apples and pears 
seem to be — and here seems to be a gentleman who wants to 
purchase either one or the other.” 

A person had stopped before the apple-woman’s stall, and was 
glancing now at the fruit, now at the old woman and myself ; he 
wore a blue mantle, and had a kind of fur cap on his head ; he 
was somewhat above the middle stature ; his features were keen, 
but rather hard ; there was a slight obliquity in his vision. 
Selecting a small apple, he gave the old woman a penny ; then, 
after looking at me scrutinizingly for a moment, he moved from 
the booth in the direction of Southwark. 

“ Do you know who that man is? ” said I to the old woman. 

“ No,” said she, “ except that he is one of my best customers : 
he frequently stops, takes an apple, and gives me a penny ; his is 
the only piece of money I have taken this blessed day. I don’t 
know him, but he has once or twice sat down in the booth with 
two strange-looking men — Mulattos, or Lascars, I think they call 
them.” 


CHAPTER XLV. 


In pursuance of my promise to the old woman, I set about pro- 
curing her a Bible with all convenient speed, placing the book 
which she had intrusted to me for the purpose of exchange in my 
pocket. I went to several shops, and asked if Bibles were to be 
had : I found that there were plenty. When, however, I informed 
the people that I came to barter, they looked blank, and declined 
treating with me, saying that they did not do business in that 
way. At last I went into a shop over the window of which I saw 
written, “ Books bought and exchanged ” : there was a smartish 
young fellow in the shop, with black hair and whiskers. “ You 
exchange?" said I. “Yes,” said he, “sometimes, but we prefer 
selling ; what book do you want ? ” “A Bible,” said I. “ Ah,” said 
he, “ there’s a great demand for Bibles just now ; all kinds of people 
are become very pious of late,” he added, grinning at me ; “I am 
afraid I can’t do business with you, more especially as the master 
is not at home. What book have you brought?” Taking the 
book out of my pocket, I placed it on the counter. The young 
fellow opened the book, and inspecting the title-page, burst into 
a loud laugh. “ What do you laugh for ? ” said I, angrily, and half 
clenching my fist. “Laugh!” said the young fellow; “laugh! 
who could help laughing ? ” “I could,” said I ; “ I see nothing to 
laugh at ; I want to exchange this book for a Bible.” “ You do ? ” 
said the young fellow ; “ well, I daresay there are plenty who would 
be willing to exchange, that is, if they dared. I wish master were 
at home ; but that would never do, either. Master’s a family man, 
the Bibles are not mine, and master being a family man, is sharp, 
and knows all his stock ; I’d buy it of you, but, to tell you the 
truth, I am quite empty here,” said he, pointing to his pocket, “ so 
I am afraid we can’t deal.” 

Whereupon, looking anxiously at the young man, “ what am 
I to do?” said I ; “ I really want a Bible ”. 

“ Can’t you buy one ? ” said the young man ; “ have you no 
money ? ” 

“Yes,” said I, “I have some, but I am merely the agent of 
another; I came to exchange, not to buy; what am I to do?” 

(260) 


1825.] 


THE EXCHANGE . 


26t 


“ I don’t know,” said the young man, thoughtfully, laying 
down the book on the counter ; “ I don’t know what you can do ; 
I think you will find some difficulty in this bartering job, the 
trade are rather precise.” All at once he laughed louder than 
before ; suddenly stopping, however, he put on a very grave look. 
“Take my advice,” said he; “there is a firm established in this 
neighbourhood which scarcely sells any books but Bibles ; they 
are very rich, and pride themselves on selling their books at the 
lowest possible price ; apply to them, who knows but what they 
will exchange with you ? ” 

Thereupon I demanded with some eagerness of the young 
man the direction to the place where he thought it possible that 
I might effect the exchange — which direction the young fellow 
cheerfully gave me, and, as I turned away, had the civility to 
wish me success. 

I had no difficulty in finding the house to which the young 
fellow directed me ; it was a very large house, situated in a 
square, and upon the side of the house was written in large 
letters, “ Bibles, and other religious books 

At the door of the house were two or three tumbrils, in the 
act of being loaded with chests, very much resembling tea- 
chests; one of the chests falling down, burst, and out flew, 
not tea, but various books, in a neat, small size, and in neat 
leather covers ; Bibles, said I, — Bibles, doubtless. I was not 
quite right, nor quite wrong ; picking up one of the books, I 
looked at it for a moment, and found it to be the New Testa- 
ment. “ Come, young lad,” said a man who stood by, in the 
dress of a porter, “put that book down, it is none of yours; if 
you want a book, go in and deal for one.” 

Deal, thought I, deal, — the man seems to know what I am 
coming about, — and going in, I presently found myself in a very 
large room. Behind a counter two men stood with their backs 
to a splendid fire, warming themselves, for the weather was cold. 

Of these men one was dressed in brown, and the other was 
dressed in black ; both were tall men — he who was dressed in 
brown was thin, and had a particularly ill-natured countenance ; 
the man dressed in black was bulky, his features were noble, but 
they were those of a lion. 

“ What is your business, young man ? ” said the precise 
personage, as I stood staring at him and his companion. 

“ I want a Bible,” said I. 

“ What price, what size?” said the precise-looking man. 

“As to size,” said I, “I should like to have a large one 


262 


LA VENGRO . 


[1825. 


— that is, if you can afford me one — I do not come to 
buy.” 

“ Oh, friend,” said the precise-looking man, “ if you come 
here expecting to have a Bible for nothing, you are mistaken — 

M 

we 

“I would scorn to have a Bible for nothing,” said I, “or 
anything else; I came not to beg, but to barter; there is no 
shame in that, especially in a country like this, where all folks 
barter.” 

“Oh, we don’t barter,” said the precise man, “at least 
Bibles ; you had better depart.” 

“ Stay, brother,” said the man with the countenance of a lion, 
“ let us ask a few questions ; this may be a very important case ; 
perhaps the young man has had convictions.” 

“ Not I,” I exclaimed, “ I am convinced of nothing, and with 
regard to the Bible — I don’t believe ” 

“ Hey ! ” said the man with the lion countenance, and there 
he stopped. But with that “ Hey ” the walls of the house seemed 
to shake, the windows rattled, and the porter whom I had seen in 
front of the house came running up the steps, and looked into 
the apartment through the glass of the door. 

There was silence for about a minute — the same kind of 
silence which succeeds a clap of thunder. 

At last the man with the lion countenance, who had kept his 
eyes fixed upon me, said calmly : “ Were you about to say that 
you don’t believe in the Bible, young man ? ” 

“ No more than in anything else,” said I ; “ you were talking 
of convictions — I have no convictions. It is not easy to believe 
in the Bible till one is convinced that there is a Bible.” 

“ He seems to be insane,” said the prim-looking man, “ we 
had better order the porter to turn him out.” 

“ I am by no means certain,” said I, “ that the porter could 
turn me out ; always provided there is a porter, and this system 
of ours be not a lie, and a dream.” 

“Come,” said the lion-looking man, impatiently, “a truce 
with this nonsense. If the porter cannot turn you out, perhaps 
some other person can; but to the point — you want a Bible?” 

“ I do,” said I, “but not for myself; I was sent by another 
person to offer something in exchange for one.” 

“ And who is that person ? ” 

“A poor old woman, who has had what you call convictions, 
— heard voices, or thought she heard them — I forgot to ask her 
whether they were loud ones.” 


i825-] 


“/T£ LOST IT!” 263 


“What has she sent to offer in exchange?” said the man, 
without taking any notice of the concluding part of my 
speech. 

“ A book,” said I. 

“ Let me see it.” 

“Nay, brother,” said the precise man, “this will never do; if 
we once adopt the system of barter, we shall have all the holders 
of useless rubbish in the town applying to us.” 

“ I wish to see what he has brought,” said the other ; 
“perhaps Baxter, or Jewell’s Apology, either of which would 
make a valuable addition to our collection. Well, young man, 
what’s the matter with you?” 

I stood like one petrified; I had put my hand into my 
pocket — the book was gone. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” repeated the man with the lion 
countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder. 

“ I have it not — I have lost it ! ” 

“ A pretty story, truly,” said the precise-looking man, “lost it !” 

“You had better retire,” said the other. 

“ How shall I appear before the party who intrusted me with 
the book ? She will certainly think that I have purloined it, not- 
withstanding all I can say ; nor, indeed, can I blame her — 
appearances are certainly against me.” 

“ They are so — you had better retire.” 

I moved towards the door. “ Stay, young man, one word 
more ; there is only one way of proceeding which would induce 
me to believe that you are sincere.” 

“ What is that ? ” said I, stopping and looking at him 
anxiously. 

“ The purchase of a Bible.” 

“ Purchase ! ” said I, “ purchase ! I came not to purchase, 
but to barter ; such was my instruction, and how can I barter if I 
have lost the book ? ” 

The other made no answer, and turning away I made for the 
door; all of a sudden I started, and turning round, “ Dear me,” 
said I, “it has just come into my head, that if the book was lost 
by my negligence, as it must have been, I have clearly a right to 
make it good ”. 

No answer. 

“ Yes,” I repeated, “ I have clearly a right to make it good ; 
how glad I am ! see the effect of a little reflection. I will pur- 
chase a Bible instantly, that is, if I have not lost ” and with 

considerable agitation I felt in my pocket. 


264 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


The prim-looking man smiled: “I suppose,” said he, “that 
he has lost his money as well as book 

“No,” said I, “I have not;” and pulling out my hand I 
displayed no less a sum than three half-crowns. 

“ O, noble goddess of the Mint ! ” as Dame Charlotta 
Nordenflycht, the Swede, said a hundred and fifty years ago, 
“ great is thy power ; how energetically the possession of thee 
speaks in favour of man’s character ! ” 

“Only half a crown for this Bible?” said I, putting down 
the money, “it is worth three; ” and bowing to the man of the 
noble features, I departed with my purchase. 

“ Queer customer,” said the prim-looking man, as I was about 
to close the door — “don’t like him.” 

“ Why, as to that, I scarcely know what to say,” said he of 
the countenance of a lion. 


CHAPTER XLV1. 


A few days after the occurrence of what is recorded in the last 
chapter, as I was wandering in the City, chance directed my 
footsteps to an alley leading from one narrow street to another 
in the neighbourhood of Cheapside. Just before I reached the 
mouth of the alley, a man in a greatcoat, closely followed by 
another, passed it ; and, at the moment in which they were 
passing, I observed the man behind snatch something from the 
pocket of the other ; whereupon, darting into the street, I seized 
the hindermost man by the collar, crying at the same time to the 
other, “ My good friend, this person has just picked your pocket 

The individual whom I addressed, turning round with a start, 
glanced at me, and then at the person whom I held. London 
is the place for strange rencounters. It appeared to me that I 
recognised both individuals — the man whose pocket had been 
picked and the other ; the latter now began to struggle violently ; 
“I have picked no one’s pocket,” said he. “Rascal,” said the 
other, “you have got my pocket-book in your bosom.” “ No, I 
have not,” said the other; and struggling more violently than 
before, the pocket-book dropped from his bosom upon the ground. 

The other was now about to lay hands upon the fellow, who 
was still struggling. “You had better take up your book,” said 
I; “I can hold him.” He followed my advice, and, taking up 
his pocket-book, surveyed my prisoner with a ferocious look, 
occasionally glaring at me. Yes, I had seen him before — it was 
the stranger whom I had observed on London Bridge, by the 
stall of the old apple-woman, with the cap and cloak; but, 
instead of these, he now wore a hat and greatcoat. “ Well,” 
said I, at last, “what am I to do with this gentleman of ours?” 
nodding to the prisoner, who had now left off struggling. “ Shall 
I let him go ? ” 

“Go!” said the other; “go! The knave — the rascal; let 
him go, indeed ! Not so, he shall go before the Lord Mayor. 
Bring him along.” 

“ Oh, let me go,” said the other : “ let me go ; this is the first 
(265) 


266 


LA VENGRO. 


[i:825. 


offence, I assure ye — the first time I ever thought to do anything 
wrong.” 

“ Hold your tongue,” said I, “or I shall be angry with you. 
If I am not very much mistaken, you once attempted to cheat 
me.” 

“ I never saw you before in all my life,” said the fellow, 
though his countenance seemed to belie his words. 

“ That is not true,” said I ; “ you are the man who attempted 
to cheat me of one-and-ninepence in the coach-yard, on the first 
morning of my arrival in London. 

“ I don’t doubt it,” said the other ; “ a confirmed thief ; ” 
and here his tones became peculiarly sharp; “I would fain see 
him hanged — crucified. Drag him along.” 

“I am no constable,” said I; “you have got your pocket- 
book — I would rather you would bid me let him go.” 

“Bid you let him go ! ” said the other almost furiously, “ I 
command — stay, what was I going to say? I was forgetting 
myself,” he observed more gently ; “ but he stole my pocket- 
book ; if you did but know what it contained.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ if it contains anything valuable, be the more 
thankful that you have recovered it; as for the man, I will 
help you to take him where you please ; but I wish you would 
let him go.” 

The stranger hesitated, and there was an extraordinary play 
of emotion in his features; he looked ferociously at the pick- 
pocket, and, more than once, somewhat suspiciously at myself ; 
at last his countenance cleared, and, with a good grace, he said, 
“ Well, you have done me a great service, and you have my 
consent to let him go; but the rascal shall not escape with 
impunity,” he exclaimed suddenly, as I let the man go, and 
starting forward, before the fellow could escape, he struck him 
a violent blow on the face. The man staggered, and had nearly 
fallen; recovering himself, however, he said: “I tell you what, 
my fellow, if I ever meet you in this street in a dark night, and 
I have a knife about me, it shall be the worse for you; as for 
you, young man,” said he to me ; but, observing that the other 
was making towards him, he left whatever he was about to say 
unfinished, and, taking to his heels, was out of sight in a moment. 

The stranger and myself walked in the direction of Cheapside, 
the way in which he had been originally proceeding ; he was 
silent for a few moments, at length he said: “You have really 
done me a great service, and I should be ungrateful not to 
acknowledge it. I am a merchant; and a merchant’s pocket- 


LONDON BRIDGE PHILOLOGY. 


1825.] 


267 


book, as you perhaps know, contains many things of importance ; 
but young man,” he exclaimed, “ I think I have seen you before; 
I thought so at first, but where I cannot exactly say : where was 
it? I mentioned London Bridge and the old apple- woman. 
“Oh,” said he, and smiled, and there was something peculiar 
in his smile, “ I remember now. Do you frequently sit on 
London Bridge?” “Occasionally,” said I; “that old woman 
is an old friend of mine.” “Friend?” said the stranger, “I 
am glad of it, for I shall know where to find you. At present I 
am going to ’Change ; time you know is precious to a merchant.” 
We were by this time close to Cheapside. “ Farewell,” said he, 
“ I shall not forget this service. I trust we shall soon meet again.” 
He then shook me by the hand and went his way. 

The next day, as I was seated beside the old woman in the 
booth, the stranger again made his appearance, and after a word 
or two, sat down beside me; the old woman was sometimes 
reading the Bible, which she had already had two or three days 
in her possession, and sometimes discoursing with me. Our 
discourse rolled chiefly on philological matters. 

“ What do you call bread in your language ? ” said I. 

“You mean the language of those who bring me things to 
buy, or who did ; for, as I told you before, I sha’n’t buy any 
more ; it’s no language of mine, dear — they call bread pannam 
in their language.” 

“ Pannam ! ” said I, “ pannam ! evidently connected with, is 
not derived from, the Latin panis; even as the word tanner, which 
signifieth a sixpence, is connected with, if not derived from, the 
Latin tener, which is itself connected with, if not derived from, 
tawno or tawner, which, in the language of Mr. Petulengro, signi- 
fieth a sucking child. Let me see, what is the term for bread in the 
language of Mr. Petulengro ? Morro, or manro, as I have some- 
times heard it called ; is there not some connection between these 
words and panis ? Yes, I think there is ; and I should not 
wonder if morro, manro, and panis were connected, perhaps 
derived from the same root ; but what is that root ? I don’t know 
— I wish I did ; though, perhaps, I should not be the happier. 
Morro — manro ! I rather think morro is the oldest form ; it is 
easier to say morro than manro. Morro ! Irish, aran ; Welsh, 
bara ; English, bread. I can see a resemblance between all the 
words, and pannam too ; and I rather think that the Petulengrian 
word is the elder. How odd it would be if the language of 
Mr. Petulengro should eventually turn out to be the mother of all 
the languages in the world ; yet it is certain that there are some 


268 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


languages in which the terms for bread have no connection with 
the word used by Mr. Petulengro, notwithstanding that those 
languages, in many other points, exhibit a close affinity to the 
language of the horse-shoe master: for example, bread, in 
Hebrew, is Laham, which assuredly exhibits little similitude 
to the word used by the aforesaid Petulengro. In Armenian 
it is ” 

“Zhats!” said the stranger starting up. “By the Patriarch 
and the Three Holy Churches, this is wonderful! How came 
you to know aught of Armenian?” 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


Just as I was about to reply to the interrogation of my new- 
formed acquaintance, a man, with a dusky countenance, probably 
one of the Lascars, or Mulattos, of whom the old woman had 
spoken, came up and whispered to him, and with this man he 
presently departed, not however before he had told me the place 
of his abode, and requested me to visit him. 

After the lapse of a few days, I called at the house which he 
had indicated. It was situated in a dark and narrow street, in the 
heart of the city, at no great distance from the Bank. I entered 
a counting-room, in which a solitary clerk, with a foreign look, 
was writing. The stranger was not at home ; returning the next 
day, however, I met him at the door as he was about to enter ; he 
shook me warmly by the hand. "I am glad to see you,” said 
he, “ follow me, I was just thinking of you.” He led me through 
the counting-room to an apartment up a flight of stairs ; before 
ascending, however, he looked into the book in which the foreign- 
visaged clerk was writing, and, seemingly not satisfied with the 
manner in which he was executing his task, he gave him two 
or three cuffs, telling him at the same time that he deserved 
crucifixion. 

The apartment above stairs, to which he led me, was large, 
with three windows which opened upon the street. The walls 
were hung with wired cases, apparently containing books. There 
was a table and two or three chairs ; but the principal article of 
furniture was a long sofa, extending from the door by which we 
entered to the farther end of the apartment. Seating himself 
upon the sofa, my new acquaintance motioned me to a seat 
beside him, and then, looking me full in the face, repeated his 
former inquiry. “ In the name of all that is wonderful, how 
came you to know aught of my language?” 

" There is nothing wonderful in that,” said I ; “we are at the 
commencement of a philological age, every one studies languages : 
that is, every one who is fit for nothing else ; philology being the 
last resource of dulness and ennui, I have got a little in advance 

(269) 


270 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


of the throng, by mastering the Armenian alphabet; but I fore- 
see the time when every unmarriageable miss, and desperate 
blockhead, will likewise have acquired the letters of Mesroub, 
and will know the term for bread, in Armenian, and perhaps that 
for wine,” 

“ Kini,” said my companion ; and that and the other word 
put me in mind of th$ duties of hospitality. “ Will you eat 
bread and drink wine w\ith me?” 

“Willingly,” said I. Whereupon my companion, unlocking 
a closet, produced on a silver salver, a loaf of bread, with a 
silver-handled knife, and wine in a silver flask, with cups of the 
same metal. “ I hope you like my fare,” said he, after we had 
both eaten and drunk. 

“ I like your bread,” said I, “ for it is stale ; I like not your 
wine, it is sweet, and I hate sweet wine.” 

“It is wine of Cyprus,” said my entertainer; and, when I 
found that it was wine of Cyprus, I tasted it again, and the second 
taste pleased me much better than the first, notwithstanding that 
I still thought it somewhat sweet. “ So,” said I, after a pause, 
looking at my companion, “ you are an Armenian.” 

“Yes,” said he, “an Armenian born in London, but not less 
an Armenian on that account. My father was a native of Ispahan, 
one of the celebrated Armenian colony which was established 
there shortly after the time of the dreadful hunger, which drove 
the children of Haik in swarms from their original country, and 
scattered them over most parts of the eastern and western world. 
In Ispahan he passed the greater portion of his life, following 
mercantile pursuits with considerable success. Certain enemies, 
however, having accused him to the despot of the place, of using 
seditious language, he was compelled to flee, leaving most of his 
property behind. Travelling in the direction of the west, he 
came at last to London, where he established himself, and 
where he eventually died, leaving behind a large property and 
myself, his only child, the fruit of a marriage with an Armenian 
English woman, who did not survive my birth more than 
three months.” 

The Armenian then proceeded to tell me that he had carried 
on the business of his father, which seemed to embrace most 
matters, from buying silks of Lascars, to speculating in the funds, 
and that he had considerably increased the property which his 
father had left him. He candidly confessed that he was wonder- 
fully fond of gold, and said there was nothing like it for giving a 
person respectability and consideration in the world ; to which 


i 825-] 


THE ARMENIAN. 


271 


assertion I made no answer, being not exactly prepared to 
contradict it. 

And, when he had related to me his history, he expressed a 
desire to know something more of myself, whereupon I gave him 
the outline of my history, concluding with saying : “lam now a 
poor author, or rather a philologist, upon the streets of London, 
possessed of many tongues, which I find of no use in the world”. 

“ Learning without money is anything but desirable,” said the 
Armenian, “ as it unfits a man for humble occupations. It is 
true that it may occasionally beget him friends ; I confess to you 
that your understanding something of my language weighs more 
with me than the service you rendered me in rescuing my pocket* 
book the other day from the claws of that scoundrel whom I yet 
hope to see hanged, if not crucified, notwithstanding there were 
in that pocket-book papers and documents of considerable value. 
Yes, that circumstance makes my heart warm towards you, for I 
am proud of my language — as I indeed well may be — what a 
language, noble and energetic ! quite original, differing from all 
others both in words and structure.” 

“ You are mistaken,” said I ; “many languages resemble the 
Armenian both in structure and words.” 

“ For example? ” said the Armenian. 

“ For example,” said I, “the English.” 

“The English,” said the Armenian; “show me one word in 
which the English resembles the Armenian.” 

“You walk on London Bridge,” said I. 

“Yes,” said the Armenian. 

“ I saw you look over the balustrade the other morning.” 

“True,” said the Armenian. 

“ Well, what did you see rushing up through the arches with 
noise and foam ? ” 

“What was it?” said the Armenian. “What was it? — you 
don’t mean the tide?" 

“ Do I not ? ” said I. 

“Well, what has the tide to do with the matter? ” 

“ Much,” said I ; “ what is the tide ? ” 

“ The ebb and flow of the sea,” said the Armenian. 

“ The sea itself ; what is the Haik word for sea ? ” 

The Armenian gave a strong gasp ; then, nodding his head 
thrice, “you are right,” said he, “the English word tide is the 
Armenian for sea ; and now I begin to perceive that there are 

many English words which are Armenian ; there is and 

and there again in French there is and derived from the 


272 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


Armenian. How strange, how singular — I thank you. It is a 
proud thing to see that the language of my race has had so much 
influence over the languages of the world.” 

I saw that all that related to his race was the weak point of 
the Armenian. I did not flatter the Armenian with respect to 
his race or language. “An inconsiderable people,” said I, 
“ shrewd and industrious, but still an inconsiderable people. A 
language bold and expressive, and of some antiquity, derived, 
though perhaps not immediately, from some much older tongue. 
I do not think that the Armenian has had any influence over 
the formation of the languages of the world. I am not much 
indebted to the Armenian for the solution of any doubts ; where- 
as to the language of Mr. Petulengro ” 

“ I have heard you mention that name before,” said the 
Armenian ; “ who is Mr. Petulengro ? ” 

And then I told the Armenian who Mr. Petulengro was. The 
Armenian spoke contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro and his race. 
“Don’t speak contemptuously of Mr. Petulengro,” said I, “nor 
of anything belonging to him. He is a dark, mysterious person- 
age ; all connected with him is a mystery, especially his language ; 
but I believe that his language is doomed to solve a great philo- 
logical problem — Mr. Petulengro ” 

“You appear agitated,” said the Armenian; “take another 
glass of wine ; you possess a great deal of philological knowledge, 
but it appears to me that the language of this Petulengro is your 
foible : but let us change the subject ; I feel much interested in 
you, and would fain be of service to you. Can you cast 
accounts? ” 

I shook my head. 

“ Keep books ? ” 

“ I have an idea that I could write books,” said I ; “but, as 

to keeping them ” and here again I shook my head. 

The Armenian was silent some time ; all at once, glancing at 
one of the wire cases, with which, as I have already said, the 
walls of the room were hung, he asked me if I was well acquainted 
with the learning of the Haiks. “ The books in these cases,” said 
he, “contain the masterpieces of Haik learning.” 

“No,” said I, “all I know of the learning of the Haiks is 
their translation of the Bible.” 

“ You have never read Z ? ” 

“ No,” said I, “ I have never read Z ” 

“ I have a plan,” said the Armenian ; “ I think I can employ 
you agreeably and profitably ; I should like to see Z in an 


1825.] 


HAIK ESOP. 


373 


English dress; you shall translate Z If you can read the 

Scriptures in Armenian, you can translate Z He is our 

Esop, the most acute and clever of all our moral writers — his 
philosophy ” 

“ I will have nothing to do with him,” said I. 

“Wherefore?” said the Armenian. 

“There is an old proverb,” said I, “ that ‘a burnt child 
avoids the fire I have burnt my hands sufficiently with attempt- 
ing to translate philosophy, to make me cautious of venturing 
upon it again ; ” and then I told the Armenian how I had been 
persuaded by the publisher to translate his philosophy into 
German, and what sorry thanks I had received ; “ and who 
knows,” said I, “ but the attempt to translate Armenian philo- 
sophy into English might be attended with yet more disagreeable 
consequences.” 

The Armenian smiled. “ You would find me very different 
from the publisher.” 

“ In many points I have no doubt I should,” I replied ; “ but 
at the present moment I feel like a bird which has escaped from 
a cage, and, though hungry, feels no disposition to return. Of 
what nation is the dark man below stairs, whom I saw writing at 
the desk ? ” 

“ He is a Moldave,” said the Armenian ; “the dog (and here 
his eyes sparkled) deserves to be crucified, he is continually 
making mistakes.” 

The Armenian again renewed his proposition about Z , 

which I again refused, as I felt but little inclination to place 
myself beneath the jurisdiction of a person who was in the habit 
of cuffing those whom he employed, when they made mistakes. 
I presently took my departure; not, however, before I had 
received from the Armenian a pressing invitation to call upon 
him whenever I should feel disposed. 


18 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


Anxious thoughts frequently disturbed me at this time with 
respect to what I was to do, and how support myself in the Great 
City. My future prospects were gloomy enough, and I looked 
forward and feared ; sometimes I felt half disposed to accept the 
offer of the Armenian, and to commence forthwith, under his 
superintendence, the translation of the Haik Esop ; but the 
remembrance of the cuffs which I had seen him bestow upon the 
Moldavian, when glancing over his shoulder into the ledger or 
whatever it was on which he was employed, immediately drove 
the inclination from my mind. I could not support the idea of 
the possibility of his staring over my shoulder upon my transla- 
tion of the Haik Esop, and, dissatisfied with my attempts, treating 
me as he had treated the Moldavian clerk ; placing myself in a 
position which exposed me to such treatment, would indeed be 
plunging into the fire after escaping from the frying pan. The 
publisher, insolent and overbearing as he was, whatever he might 
have wished or thought, had never lifted his hand against me, or 
told me that I merited crucifixion. 

What was I to do? turn porter? I was strong; but there 
was something besides strength required to ply the trade of a 
porter — a mind of a particularly phlegmatic temperament, which 
I did not possess. What should I do? — enlist as a soldier? I 
was tall enough; but something besides height is required to 
make a man play with credit the part of soldier, I mean a private 
one — a spirit, if spirit it can be called, which will not only 
enable a man to submit with patience to insolence and abuse, 
and even to cuffs and kicks, but occasionally to the lash. I felt 
that I was not qualified to be a soldier, at least a private one ; 
far better be a drudge to the most ferocious of publishers, editing 
Newgate lives, and writing in eighteenpenny reviews— better to 
translate the Haik Esop, under the superintendence of ten 
Armenians, than be a private soldier in the English service; I 
did not decide rashly — I knew something of soldiering. What 
should I do ? I thought that I would make a last and desperate 
attempt to dispose of the ballads and of Ab Gwilym. 

(274) 


1825.] 


WHAT TO DO f 


275 


I had still an idea that, provided I could persuade any spirited 
publisher to give these translations to the world, I should acquire 
both considerable fame and profit ; not, perhaps, a world-embracing 
fame such as Byron’s, but a fame not to be sneered at, which 
would last me a considerable time, and would keep my heart from 
breaking ; — profit, not equal to that which Scott had made by his 
wondrous novels, but which would prevent me from starving, and 
enable me to achieve some other literary enterprise. I read and 
re-read my ballads, and the more I read them the more I was 
convinced that the public, in the event of their being published, 
would freely purchase, and hail them with the merited applause. 
Were not the deeds and adventures wonderful and heart-stirring, 
from which it is true I could claim no merit, being but the 
translator; but had I not rendered them into English, with all 
their original fire? Yes, I was confident I had; and I had no 
doubt that the public would say so. And then, with respect to 
Ab Gwilym, had I not done as much justice to him as to the 
Danish Ballads ; not only rendering faithfully his thoughts, ima- 
gery and phraseology, but even preserving in my translation the 
alliterative euphony which constitutes one of the most remarkable 
features of Welsh prosody? Yes, I had accomplished all this; 
and I doubted not that the public would receive my translations 
from Ab Gwilym with quite as much eagerness as my version of 
the Danish ballads. But I found the publishers as untractable 
as ever, and to this day the public has never had an opportunity 
of doing justice to the glowing fire of my ballad versification, and 
the alliterative euphony of my imitations of Ab Gwilym. 

I had not seen Francis Ardry since the day I had seen him 
taking lessons in elocution. One afternoon, as I was seated at 
my table, my head resting on my hands, he entered my apartment ; 
sitting down, he inquired of me why I had not been to see him. 

“ I might ask the same question of you,” I replied. “ Where- 
fore have you not been to see me?” Whereupon Francis Ardry 
told me that he had been much engaged in his oratorical exercises, 
also in escorting the young Frenchwoman about to places of 
public amusement ; he then again questioned me as to the reason 
of my not having been to see him. 

I returned an evasive answer. The truth was, that for some 
time past my appearance, owing to the state of my finances, had 
been rather shabby ; and I did not wish to expose a fashionable 
young man like Francis Ardry, who lived in a fashionable neigh- 
bourhood, to the imputation of having a shabby acquaintance. 
I was aware that Francis Ardry was an excellent fellow ; but, on 


276 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


that very account, I felt, under existing circumstances, a delicacy 
in visiting him. 

It is very possible that he had an inkling of how matters stood, 
as he presently began to talk of my affairs and prospects. I told 
him of my late ill success with the booksellers, and inveighed 
against their blindness to their own interest in refusing to publish 
my translations. “The last that I addressed myself to,” said I, 
“ told me not to trouble him again, unless I could bring him a 
decent novel or a tale.” 

“ Well,” said Frank, “ and why did you not carry him a decent 
novel or a tale ? ” 

“ Because I have neither,” said I ; “ and to write them is, I 
believe, above my capacity. At present I feel divested of all 
energy — heartless and almost hopeless.” 

“I see how it is,” said Francis Ardry, “ you have overworked 
yourself, and, worst of all, to no purpose. Take my advice ; cast 
all care aside, and only think of diverting yourself for a month at 
least.” 

“ Divert myself,” said I ; “ and where am I to find the means ? ” 

“ Be that care on my shoulders,” said Francis Ardry. “ Listen 
to me — my uncles have been so delighted with the favourable 

accounts which they have lately received from T of my 

progress in oratory, that, in the warmth of their hearts, they 
made me a present yesterday of two hundred pounds. This is 
more money than I want, at least for the present; do me the 
favour to take half of it as a loan — hear me,” said he, observing 
that I was about to interrupt him, “ I have a plan in my head — 
one of the prettiest in the world. The sister of my charmer is 
just arrived from France ; she cannot speak a word of English ; 
and, as Annette and myself are much engaged in our own matters, 
we cannot pay her the attention which we should wish, and which 
she deserves, for she is a truly fascinating creature, although 
somewhat differing from my charmer, having blue eyes and flaxen 

hair ; whilst Annette, on the contrary But I hope you will 

shortly see Annette. Now my plan is this — Take the money, 
dress yourself fashionably, and conduct Annette’s sister to Bag- 
nigge Wells.” 

“ And what should we do at Bagnigge Wells ? ” 

“ Do ! ” said Francis Ardry. “ Dance ! ” 

“ But,” said I, “ I scarcely know anything of dancing.” 

“ Then here’s an excellent opportunity of improving yourself. 
Like most Frenchwomen, she dances divinely ; however, if you 
object to Bagnigge Wells and dancing, go to Brighton, and 


1835-1 


FOOLISH PLAN. 


277 


remain there a month or two, at the end of which time you can 
return with your mind refreshed and invigorated, and materials, 
perhaps, for a tale or novel.” 

“I never heard a more foolish plan,” said I, “or one less 
likely to terminate profitably or satisfactorily. I thank you, 
however, for your offer, which is, I daresay, well meant. If I am 
to escape from my cares and troubles, and find my mind refreshed 
and invigorated, I must adopt other means than conducting a 
French demoiselle to Brighton or Bagnigge Wells, defraying the 
expense by borrowing from a friend.” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


The Armenian ! I frequently saw this individual, availing myself 
of the permission which he had given me to call upon him. A 
truly singular personage was he, with his love of amassing money, 
and his nationality so strong as to be akin to poetry. Many an 
Armenian I have subsequently known fond of money-getting, and 
not destitute of national spirit ; but never another, who, in the 
midst of his schemes of lucre, was at all times willing to enter 
into a conversation on the structure of the Haik language, or 
who ever offered me money to render into English the fables 

of Z in the hope of astonishing the stock-jobbers of the 

Exchange with the wisdom of the Haik Esop. 

But he was fond of money, very fond. Within a little time I 
had won his confidence to such a degree that he informed me that 
the grand wish of his heart was to be possessed of two hundred 
thousand pounds. 

“ I think you might satisfy yourself with the half,” said I. 
“One hundred thousand pounds is a large sum.” 

“You are mistaken,” said the Armenian, “a hundred thousand 
pounds is nothing. My father left me that or more at his death. 
No ; I shall never be satisfied with less than two.” 

“And what will you do with your riches,” said I, “ when you 
have obtained them? Will you sit down and muse upon them, 
or will you deposit them in a cellar, and go down once a day to 
stare at them? I have heard say that the fulfilment of one’s 
wishes is invariably the precursor of extreme misery, and forsooth 
I can scarcely conceive a more horrible state of existence than to 
be without a hope or wish.” 

“ It is bad enough, I dare say,” said the Armenian ; “ it will, 
however, be time enough to think of disposing of the money 
when I have procured it. I still fall short by a vast sum of the 
two hundred thousand pounds.” 

I had occasionally much conversation with him on the state 
and prospects of his nation, especially of that part of it which still 
continued in the original country of the Haiks — Ararat and its 

(278) 


1825.] 


ARARAT AGAIN. 


279 


confines, which, it appeared, he had frequently visited. He 
informed me that since the death of the last Haik monarch, 
which occurred in the eleventh century, Armenia had been 
governed both temporally and spiritually by certain personages 
called patriarchs ; their temporal authority, however, was much 
circumscribed by the Persian and Turk, especially the former, of 
whom the Armenian spoke with much hatred, whilst their spirit- 
ual authority had at various times been considerably undermined 
by the emissaries of the Papa of Rome, as the Armenian called 
him. 

“The Papa of Rome sent his emissaries at an early period 
amongst us,” said the Armenian, “ seducing the minds of weak- 
headed people, persuading them that the hillocks of Rome are 
higher than the ridges of Ararat ; that the Roman Papa has more 
to say in heaven than the Armenian patriarch, and that puny 
Latin is a better language than nervous and sonorous Haik.” 

“They are both dialects,” said I, “of the language of Mr. 
Petulengro, one of whose race I believe to have been the original 
founder of Rome; but, with respect to religion, what are the 
chief points of your faith? you are Christians, I believe.” 

“Yes,” said the Armenian, “we are Christians in our way; 
we believe in God, the Holy Spirit, and Saviour, though we are 
not prepared to admit that the last personage is not only himself, 

but the other two. We believe ” and then the Armenian 

told me of several things which the Haiks believed or disbelieved. 
“ But what we find most hard of all to believe,” said he, “ is that 
the man of the mole-hills is entitled to our allegiance, he not 
being a Haik, or understanding the Haik language.” 

“ But, by your own confession,” said I, “ he has introduced a 
schism in your nation, and has amongst you many that believe 
in him.” 

“ It is true,” said the Armenian, “that even on the confines 
of Ararat there are a great number who consider that mountain 
to be lower than the hillocks of Rome ; but the greater number 
of degenerate Armenians are to be found amongst those who 
have wandered to the west; most of the Haik churches of the 
west consider Rome to be higher than Ararat — most of the 
Armenians of this place hold that dogma; I, however, have 
always stood firm in the contrary opinion.” 

“Ha! ha!” — here the Armenian laughed In his peculiar 
manner — “ talking of this matter puts me in mind of an adventure 
which lately befel me, with one of the emissaries of the Papa of 
Rome, for the Papa of Rome has at present many emissaries in 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


380 


this country, in order to seduce the people from their own quiet 
religion to the savage heresy of Rome; this fellow came to me 
partly in the hope of converting me, but principally to extort 
money for the purpose of furthering the designs of Rome in this 
country. I humoured the fellow at first, keeping him in play for 
nearly a month, deceiving and laughing at him. At last he 
discovered that he could make nothing of me, and departed with 
the scowl of Caiaphas, whilst I cried after him : ‘ The roots of 
Ararat are deeper than those of Rome 

The Armenian had occasionally reverted to the subject of the 
translation of the Haik Esop, which he had still a lurking desire 
that I should execute ; but I had invariably declined the under- 
taking, without, however, stating my reasons. On one occasion, 
when we had been conversing on the subject, the Armenian, who 
had been observing my countenance for some time with much 
attention, remarked, “ Perhaps, after all, you are right, and you 
might employ your time to better advantage. Literature is a fine 
thing, especially Haik literature, but neither that nor any other 
would be likely to serve as a foundation to a man’s fortune : and 
to make a fortune should be the principal aim of every one’s 
life ; therefore listen to me. Accept a seat at the desk opposite 
to my Moldavian clerk, and receive the rudiments of a merchant’s 
education. You shall be instructed in the Armenian way of doing 
business — I think you would make an excellent merchant.” 

“ Why do you think so?” 

“ Because you have something of the Armenian look.” 

“ I understand you,” said I ; “ you mean to say that I squint?” 

“Not exactly,” said the Armenian, “but there is certainly a 
kind of irregularity in your features. One eye appears to me 
larger than the other — never mind, but rather rejoice; in that 
irregularity consists your strength. All people with regular features 
are fools; it is very hard for them, you’ll say, but there is no 
help : all we can do, who are not in such a predicament, is to 
pity those who are. Well ! will you accept my offer ? No ! you 
are a singular individual ; but I must not forget my own concerns. 
I must now go forth, having an appointment by which I hope to 
make money.” 


CHAPTER L. 


The fulfilment of the Armenian’s grand wish was nearer at hand 
than either he or I had anticipated. Partly owing to the success 
of a bold speculation, in which he had some time previously 
engaged, and partly owing to the bequest of a large sum of 
money by one of his nation who died at this period in Paris, he 
found himself in the possession of a fortune somewhat exceeding 
two hundred thousand pounds ; this fact he communicated to me 
one evening about an hour after the close of ’Change, the hour 
at which I generally called, and at which I mostly found him at 
home. 

“ Well,” said I, “and what do you intend to do next?” 

“ I scarcely know,” said the Armenian. “ I was thinking of 
that when you came in. I don’t see anything that I can do, save 
going on in my former course. After all, I was perhaps too 
moderate in making the possession of two hundred thousand 
pounds the summit of my ambition ; there are many individuals 
in this town who possess three times that sum, and are not yet 
satisfied. No, I think I can do no better than pursue the old 
career; who knows but I may make the two hundred thousand 
three or four ? — there is already a surplus, which is an encourage- 
ment; however, we will consider the matter over a goblet of 
wine ; I have observed of late that you have become partial to 
my Cyprus.” 

And it came to pass that, as we were seated over the Cyprus 
wine, we heard a knock at the door. “ Adelante ! ” cried the 
Armenian ; whereupon the door opened, and in walked a some- 
what extraordinary figure — a man in a long loose tunic of a stuff 
striped with black and yellow ; breeches of plush velvet, silk 
stockings, and shoes with silver buckles. On his head he wore 
a high -peaked hat ; he was tall, had a hooked nose, and in age 
was about fifty. 

“Welcome, Rabbi Manasseh,” said the Armenian. “ I know 
your knock — you are welcome ; sit down.” 

“I am welcome,” said Manasseh, sitting down; “he — he — 
he ! you know my knock — I bring you money — bueno ! ” 

There was something very peculiar in the sound of that bueno 
— I never forgot it. 


282 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


Thereupon a conversation ensued between Rabbi Manasseh 
and the Armenian, in a language which I knew to be Spanish, 
though a peculiar dialect. It related to a mercantile transaction. 
The Rabbi sighed heavily as he delivered to the other a consider- 
able sum of money. 

“ It is right,” said the Armenian, handing a receipt. “ It is 
right; and I am quite satisfied.” 

“You are satisfied — you have taken money. Bueno , I have 
nothing to say against your being satisfied.” 

“ Come, Rabbi,” said the Armenian, “ do not despond ; it 
may be your turn next to take money; in the meantime, can’t 
you be persuaded to taste my Cyprus?” 

“ He — he — he ! senor, you know I do not love wine. I love 
Noah when he is himself ; but, as Janus, I love him not. But 
you are merry, bueno ; you have a right to be so.” 

“ Excuse me,” said I, “but does Noah ever appear as Janus?” 

“ He — he — he ! ” said the Rabbi, “ he only appeared as Janus 
once — una vez quando estuvo borracho ; which means ” 

“ I understand,” said I ; “ when he was ” and I drew 

the side of my right hand sharply across my left wrist. 

“ Are you one of our people? ” said the Rabbi. 

“ No,” said I, “ I am one of the Goyim; but I am only half 
enlightened. Why should Noah be Janus, when he was in that 
state ? ” 

“ He — he— he ! you must know that in Lasan akhades wine 
is janin.” 

“In Armenian, kini,” said I; “in Welsh, gwin ; Latin, 
vinum ; but do you think that Janus and janin are one ? ” 

“Do I think? Don’t the commentators say so? Does not 
Master Leo Abarbenel say so in his Dialogues of Divine Love ? ” 

“ But,” said I, “ I always thought that Janus was a god of the 
ancient Romans, who stood in a temple open in time of war, and 
shut in time of peace ; he was represented with two faces, which 
—which ” 

“ He — he — he ! ” said the Rabbi, rising from his seat ; “he 
had two faces, had he? And what did those two faces typify? 
You do not know; no, nor did the Romans who carved him with 
two faces know why they did so ; for they were only half- 
enlightened, like you and the rest of the Goyim. Yet they were 
right in carving him with two faces looking from each other — they 
were right, though they knew not why; there was a tradition 
among them that the Janinoso had two faces, but they knew not 
that one was for the world which was gone, and the other for the 
world before him — for the drowned world, and for the present, as 


1825.] 


JANUS VINOSUS. 


283 


Master Leo Abarbenel says in his Dialogues of Divine Love . 
He — he — he ! ” continued the Rabbi, who had by this time 
advanced to the door, and, turning round, waved the two fore- 
fingers of his right hand in our faces; “the Goyim and Epi- 
couraiyim are clever men, they know how to make money better 
than we of Israel. My good friend there is a clever man, I bring 
him money, he never brought me any, bueno ; I do not blame 
him, he knows much, very much ; but one thing there is my 
friend does not know, nor any of the Epicureans, he does not 
know the sacred thing — he has never received the gift of inter- 
pretation which God alone gives to the seed — he has his gift, I 
have mine — he is satisfied, I don’t blame him, bueno.” 

And with this last word in his mouth, he departed. 

“ Is that man a native of Spain ? ” I demanded. 

“Not a native of Spain,” said the Armenian, “though he is 
one of those who call themselves Spanish Jews, and who are 
to be found scattered throughout Europe, speaking the Spanish 
language transmitted to them by their ancestors, who were 
expelled from Spain in the time of Ferdinand and Isabella.” 

“The Jews are a singular people,” said I. 

“ A race of cowards and dastards,” said the Armenian, “ with- 
out a home or country ; servants to servants ; persecuted and 
despised by all.” 

“And what are the Haiks?” I demanded. 

“Very different from the Jews,” replied the Armenian; “the 
Haiks have a home — a country, and can occasionally use a good 
sword ; though it is true they are not what they might be.” 

“Then it is a shame that they do not become so,” said I; 
“ but they are too fond of money. There is yourself, with two 
hundred thousand pounds in your pocket, craving for more, whilst 
you might be turning your wealth to the service of your country.” 

“ In what manner?” said the Armenian. 

“ I have heard you say that the grand oppressor of your 
country is the Persian ; why not attempt to free your country 
from his oppression — you have two hundred thousand pounds, 
and money is the sinew of war?” 

“ Would you, then, have me attack the Persian ? ” 

“ I scarcely know what to say ; fighting is a rough trade, and 
I am by no means certain that you are calculated for the scratch. 
It is not every one who has been brought up in the school of Mr. 
Petulengro and Tawno Chikno. All I can say is, that if I were 
an Armenian, and had two hundred thousand pounds to back me- 
I would attack the Persian.” 

“ Hem ! ” said the Armenian, 


CHAPTER LI. 


One morning on getting up I discovered that my whole worldly 
wealth was reduced to one half-crown — throughout that day I 
walked about in considerable distress of mind ; it was now 
requisite that I should come to a speedy decision with respect 
to what I was to do ; I had not many alternatives, and, before I 
had retired to rest on the night of the day in question, I had 
determined that I could do no better than accept the first pro- 
posal of the Armenian, and translate, under his superintendence, 
the Haik Esop into English. 

I reflected, for I made a virtue of necessity, that, after all, 
such an employment would be an honest and honourable one; 
honest, inasmuch as by engaging in it I should do harm to 
nobody ; honourable, inasmuch as it was a literary task, which 
not every one was capable of executing. It was not every one 
of the booksellers’ writers of London who was competent to 
translate the Haik Esop. I determined to accept the offer of 
the Armenian. 

Once or twice the thought of what I might have to undergo 
in the translation from certain peculiarities of the Armenian’s 
temper almost unsettled me; but a mechanical diving of my 
hand into my pocket, and the feeling of the solitary half-crown, 
confirmed me ; after all this was a life of trial and tribulation, 
and I had read somewhere or other that there was much merit 
in patience, so I determined to hold fast in my resolution of 
accepting the offer of the Armenian. 

But all of a sudden I remembered that the Armenian appeared 
to have altered his intentions towards me : he appeared no longer 
desirous that I should render the Haik Esop into English for the 
benefit of the stock-jobbers on Exchange, but rather that I should 
acquire the rudiments of doing business in the Armenian fashion, 
and accumulate a fortune, which would enable me to make a figure 
upon ’Change with the best of the stock-jobbers. “Well,” thought 
I, withdrawing my hand from my pocket, whither it had again 
mechanically dived, “ after all, what would the world, what would 

(284) 


ONE HALF-CROWN. 


1825.] 


285 


this city be, without commerce ? I believe the world, and particu- 
larly this city, would cut a very poor figure without commerce; 
and then there is something poetical in the idea of doing business 
after the Armenian fashion, dealing with dark-faced Lascars and 
Rabbins of the Sephardim. Yes, should the Armenian insist 
upon it, I will accept a seat at the desk, opposite the Mol- 
davian clerk. I do not like the idea of cuffs similar to those the 
Armenian bestowed upon the Moldavian clerk; whatever merit 
there may be in patience, I do not think that my estimation of 
the merit of patience would be sufficient to induce me to remain 
quietly sitting under the infliction of cuffs. I think I should, in 
the event of his cuffing me, knock the Armenian down. Well, 
I think I have heard it said somewhere, that a knock-down blow 
is a great cementer of friendship ; I think I have heard of two 
people being better friends than ever after the one had received 
from the other a knock-down blow.” 

That night I dreamed I had acquired a colossal fortune, some 
four hundred thousand pounds, by the Armenian way of doing 
business, but suddenly awoke in dreadful perplexity as to how I 
should dispose of it. 

About nine o’clock next morning I set off to the house of the 
Armenian ; I had never called upon him so early before, and 
certainly never with a heart beating with so much eagerness ; 
but the situation of my affairs had become very critical, and I 
thought that I ought to lose no time in informing the Armenian 
that I was at length perfectly willing either to translate the Haik 
Esop under his superintendence, or to accept a seat at the desk 
opposite to the Moldavian clerk, and acquire the secrets of Ar- 
menian commerce. With a quick step I entered the counting- 
room, where, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, I found 
the clerk busied as usual at his desk. 

He had always appeared to me a singular being, this same 
Moldavian clerk. A person of fewer words could scarcely be 
conceived. Provided his master were at home, he would, on my 
inquiring, nod his head ; and, provided he were not, he would 
invariably reply with the monosyllable “ no,” delivered in a 
strange guttural tone. On the present occasion, being full of 
eagerness and impatience, I was about to pass by him to the 
apartment above, without my usual inquiry, when he lifted his 
head from the ledger in which he was writing, and, laying down 
his pen, motioned to me with his forefinger, as if to arrest my 
progress ; whereupon I stopped, and, with a palpitating heart, 
demanded whether the master of the house was at home ? The 


286 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


Moldavian clerk replied with his usual guttural, and, opening his 
desk ensconced his head therein. 

“ It does not much matter,” said I, “ I suppose I shall find 
him at home after ’Change; it does not much matter, I can 
return.” 

I was turning away with the intention of leaving the room ; 
at this moment, however, the head of the Moldavian clerk 
became visible, and I observed a letter in his hand, which he 
had inserted in the desk at the same time with his head ; this 
he extended towards me, making at the same time a side-long 
motion with his head, as much as to say that it contained some- 
thing which interested me. 

I took the letter, and the Moldavian clerk forthwith resumed 
his occupation. The back of the letter bore my name, written 
in Armenian characters. With a trembling hand I broke the seal, 
and, unfolding the letter, I beheld several lines also written in the 
letters of Mesroub, the Cadmus of the Armenians. 

I stared at the lines, and at first could not make out a syllable 
of their meaning; at last, however, by continued staring, I dis- 
covered that, though the letters were Armenian, the words were 
English; in about ten minutes I had contrived to decipher the 
sense of the letter ; it ran somewhat in this style : — 

“ MY DEAR FRIEND, 

“ The words which you uttered in our last conversation 
have made a profound impression upon me; I have thought 
them over day and night, and have come to the conclusion that 
it is my bounden duty to attack the Persians. When these lines 
are delivered to you, I shall be on the route to Ararat. A 
mercantile speculation will be to the world the ostensible motive 
of my journey, and it is singular enough that one which offers 
considerable prospect of advantage has just presented itself on 
the confines of Persia. Think not, however, that motives of 
lucre would have been sufficiently powerful to tempt me to the 
East at the present moment. I may speculate, it is true; but 
I should scarcely have undertaken the journey but for your 
pungent words inciting me to attack the Persians. Doubt not 
that I will attack them on the first opportunity. I thank you 
heartily for putting me in mind of my duty. I have hitherto, 
to use your own words, been too fond of money-getting, like all 
my countrymen. I am much indebted to you ; farewell ! and 
may every prosperity await you.” 

For some time after I had deciphered the epistle, I stood as 
if rooted to the floor. I felt stunned — my last hope was gone. 


1825.] 


THE MOLDAVIAN CLERK. 


287 


presently a feeling arose in my mind — a feeling of self-reproach. 
Whom had I to blame but myself for the departure of the Arme- 
nian? Would he have ever thought of attacking the Persians 
had I not put the idea into his head? he had told me in his 
epistle that he was indebted to me for the idea. But for that, 
he might at the present moment have been in London, increasing 
his fortune by his usual methods, and I might be commencing 
under his auspices the translation of the Haik Esop, with the 
promise, no doubt, of a considerable remuneration for my trouble ; 
or I might be taking a seat opposite the Moldavian clerk, and 
imbibing the first rudiments of doing business after the Armenian 
fashion, with the comfortable hope of realising, in a short time, 
a fortune of three or four hundred thousand pounds ; but the 
Armenian was now gone, and farewell to the fine hopes I had 
founded upon him the day before. What was I to do ? I looked 
wildly around, till my eyes rested on the Moldavian clerk, who 
was writing away in his ledger with particular vehemence. Not 
knowing well what to do or to say, I thought I might as well ask 
the Moldavian clerk when the Armenian had departed, and when 
he thought he would return. It is true it mattered little to me 
when he departed seeing that he was gone, and it was evident 
that he would not be back soon ; but I knew not what to do, 
and in pure helplessness thought I might as well ask ; so I went 
up to the Moldavian clerk and asked him when the Armenian 
had departed, and whether he had been gone two days or three ? 
Whereupon the Moldavian clerk looking up from his ledger, 
made certain signs, which I could by no means understand. I 
stood astonished, but, presently recovering myself, inquired when 
he considered it probable that the master would return, and 
whether he thought it would be two months or — my tongue 
faltered — two years ; whereupon the Moldavian clerk made more 
signs than before, and yet more unintelligible; as I persisted, 
however, he flung down his pen, and, putting his thumb into 
his mouth moved it rapidly, causing the nail to sound against 
the lower jaw ; whereupon I saw that he was dumb, and hurried 
away, for I had always entertained a horror of dumb people, 
having once heard my mother say, when I was a child, that 
dumb people were half demoniacs, or little better. 


CHAPTER LIT. 


Leaving the house of the Armenian, I strolled about for some 
time; almost mechanically my feet conducted me to London 
Bridge, to the booth in which stood the stall of the old apple- 
woman ; the sound of her voice aroused me, as I sat in a kind of 
stupor on the stone bench beside her; she was inquiring what 
was the matter with me. 

At first, I believe, I answered her very incoherently, for I 
observed alarm beginning to depict itself upon her countenance. 
Rousing myself, however, I in my turn put a few questions to her 
upon her present condition and prospects. The old woman’s 
countenance cleared up instantly ; she informed me that she had 
never been more comfortable in her life; that her trade, her 
honest trade — laying an emphasis on the word honest — had 
increased of late wonderfully; that her health was better, and, 
above all, that she felt no fear and horror “ here,” laying her hand 
on her breast. 

On my asking her whether she still heard voices in the night, 
she told me that she frequently did ; but that the present were 
mild voices, sweet voices, encouraging voices, very different from 
the former ones ; that a voice only the night previous, had cried 
out about “the peace of God,” in particularly sweet accents; a 
sentence which she remembered to have read in her early youth 
in the primer, but which she had clean forgotten till the voice the 
night before brought it to her recollection. 

After a pause, the old woman said to me : “I believe, dear, 
that it is the blessed book you brought me which has wrought 
this goodly change. How glad I am now that I can read ; but 
oh what a difference between the book you brought to me and 
the one you took away. I believe the one you brought is written 
by the finger of God, and the other by ” 

“ Don’t abuse the book,” said I, “it is an excellent book for 
those who can understand it ; it was not exactly suited to you, 
and perhaps it had been better that you had never read it — and yet, 
who knows ? Peradventure, if you had not read that book, you 

(288) 


I2TH May, 1825.] 


FAREWELL, CHILD: 


289 


would not have been fitted for the perusal of the one which you 
say is written by the finger of God; ” and, pressing my hand to 
my head, I fell into a deep fit of musing. “What, after all,” 
thought I, “if there should be more order and system in the 
working of the moral world than I have thought? Does there 
not seem in the present instance to be something like the working 
of a Divine hand ? I could not conceive why this woman, better 
educated than her mother, should have been, as she certainly was, 
a worse character than her mother. Yet perhaps this woman 
may be better and happier than her mother ever was ; perhaps 
she is so already — perhaps this world is not a wild, lying dream, 
as I have occasionally supposed it to be.” 

But the thought of my own situation did not permit me to 
abandon myself much longer to these musings. I started up. 
“Where are you going, child?” said the woman anxiously. “I 
scarcely know,” said I ; “ anywhere.” “ Then stay here, child,” 
said she ; “ I have much to say to you.” “ No,” said I, “ I shall 
be better moving about ; ” and I was moving away, when it 
suddenly occurred to me that I might never see this woman 
again ; and turning round I offered her my hand, and bade her 
good-bye. “Farewell, child,” said the old woman, “and God 
bless you ! ” I then moved along the bridge until I reached the 
Southwark side, and, still holding on my course, my mind again 
became quickly abstracted from all surrounding objects. 

At length I found myself in a street or road, with terraces on 
either side, and seemingly of interminable length, leading, as it 
would appear, to the south-east. I was walking at a great rate — 
there were likewise a great number of people, also walking at a 
great rate ; also carts and carriages driving at a great rate ; and 
all, men, carts and carriages, going in the selfsame direction, 
namely, to the south-east. I stopped for a moment and deliber- 
ated whether or not I should proceed. What business had I in 
that direction? I could not say that I had any particular 
business in that direction, but what could I do were I to turn 
back ? only walk about well-known streets ; and, if I must walk, 
why not continue in the direction in which I was to see whither 
the road and its terraces led ? I was here in a terra incognita, 
and an unknown place had always some interest for me ; more- 
over, I had a desire to know whither all this crowd was going, 
and for what purpose. I thought they could not be going 
far, as crowds seldom go far, especially at such a rate ; so I 
walked on more lustily than before, passing group after group 
of the crowd, and almost vieing in speed with some of the 

19 


290 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


carriages, especially the hackney-coaches ; and by dint of walking 
at this rate, the terraces and houses becoming somewhat less 
frequent as I advanced, I reached in about three-quarters of 
an hour a kind of low dingy town, in the neighbourhood of the 
river ; the streets were swarming with people, and I concluded, 
from the number of wild-beast shows, caravans, gingerbread stalls, 
and the like, that a fair was being held. Now, as I had always 
been partial to fairs, I felt glad that I had fallen in with the 
crowd which had conducted me to the present one, and, casting 
away as much as I was able all gloomy thoughts, I did my best 
to enter into the diversions of the fair ; staring at the wonderful 
representations of animals on canvas hung up before the shows 
of wild beasts, which, by-the-bye, are frequently found much 
more worthy of admiration than the real beasts themselves ; 
listening to the jokes of the merry-andrews from the platforms in 
front of the temporary theatres, or admiring the splendid tinsel 
dresses of the performers who thronged the stages in the intervals 
of the entertainments ; and in this manner, occasionally gazing 
and occasionally listening, I passed through the town till I came 
in front of a large edifice looking full upon the majestic bosom of 
the Thames. 

It was a massive stone edifice, built in an antique style, and 
black with age, with a broad esplanade between it and the river, 
on which, mixed with a few people from the fair, I observed 
moving about a great many individuals in quaint dresses of blue, 
with strange three-cornered hats on their heads ; most of them 
were mutilated ; this had a wooden leg — this wanted an arm ; 
some had but one eye ; and as I gazed upon the edifice, and the 
singular-looking individuals who moved before it, I guessed where 

I was. “I am at ” said I; “these individuals are battered 

tars of Old England, and this edifice, once the favourite abode of 
Glorious Elizabeth, is the refuge which a grateful country has 
allotted to them. Here they can rest their weary bodies ; at their 
ease talk over the actions in which they have been injured ; and, 
with the tear of enthusiasm flowing from their eyes, boast how 
they have trod the deck of fame with Rodney, or Nelson, or others 
whose names stand emblazoned in the naval annals of their 
country.” 

Turning to the right, I entered a park or wood consisting of 
enormous trees, occupying the foot, sides, and top of a hill, which 
rose behind the town; there were multitudes of people among 
the trees, diverting themselves in various ways. Coming to the 
top of the hill, I was presently stopped by a lofty wall, along 


/ 


1825.] 


GREENWICH FAIR. 


291 


which I walked, till, coming to a small gate, I passed through 
and found myself on an extensive green plain, on one side 
bounded in part by the wall of the park, and on the others, in the 
distance, by extensive ranges of houses ; to the south-east was a 
lofty eminence, partially clothed with wood. The plain exhibited 
an animated scene, a kind of continuation of the fair below ; there 
were multitudes of people upon it, many tents, and shows ; there 
was also horse-racing, and much noise and shouting, the sun 
shining brightly overhead. After gazing at the horse-racing for a 
little time, feeling myself somewhat tired, I went up to one of the 
tents, and laid myself down on the grass. There was much noise 
in the tent. “ Who will stand me ? ” said a voice with a slight 
tendency to lisp. “Will you, my lord?” “Yes,” said another 
voice. Then there was a sound as of a piece of money banging 
on a table. “ Lost ! lost ! lost ! ” cried several voices ; and then 
the banging down of the money, and the “ lost ! lost ! lost ! ” were 
frequently repeated ; at last the second voice exclaimed : “ I will 
try no more ; you have cheated me ”. “ Never cheated any one 

in my life, my lord — all fair — all chance. Them that finds, wins 
— them that can’t find, loses. Any one else try? Who’ll try? 
Will you, my lord ? ” and then it appeared that some other lord 
tried, for I heard more money flung down. Then again the cry 
of “ Lost ! lost ! ” — then again the sound of money, and so on. 
Once or twice, but not more, I heard “ Won ! won ! ” but the 
predominant cry was “ Lost ! lost ! ” At last there was a con- 
siderable hubbub, and the words “ Cheat ! ” “ Rogue ! ” and 
“You filched away the pea ! ” were used freely by more voices 
than one, to which the voice with the tendency to lisp replied : 
“Never filched a pea in my life; would scorn it. Always glad 
when folks wins ; but, as those here don’t appear to be civil, nor 
to wish to play any more, I shall take myself off with my table; 
so, good-day, gentlemen.” 


CHAPTER LI1I. 


Presently a man emerged from the tent, bearing before him a 
rather singular table; it appeared to be of white deal, was ex- 
ceedingly small at the top, and with very long legs. At a few 
yards from the entrance he paused, and looked round, as if to 
decide on the direction which he should take ; presently, his eye 
glancing on me as I lay upon the ground, he started, and appeared 
for a moment inclined to make off as quick as possible, table and 
all. In a moment, however, he seemed to recover assurance, 
and, coming up to the place where I was, the long legs of the 
table projecting before him, he cried : “ Glad to see you here, my 
lord 

“Thank you,” said I, “it’s a fine day.” 

“Very fine, my lord; will your lordship play? Them that 
finds, wins — them that don’t find, loses.” 

“ Play at what ? ” said I. 

“ Only at the thimble and pea, my lord.” 

“ I never heard of such a game.” 

“ Didn’t you ? Well, I’ll soon teach you,” said he, placing 
the table down. “ All you have to do is to put a sovereign down 
on my table, and to find the pea, which I put under one of my 
thimbles. If you find it — and it is easy enough to find it — I 
give you a sovereign besides your own : for them that finds, wins.” 

“ And them that don’t find, loses,” said I ; “ no, I don’t wish 
to play.” 

“Why not, my lord?” 

“Why, in the first place, I have no money.” 

“ Oh, you have no money ; that of course alters the case. If 
you have no money, you can’t play. Well, I suppose I must be 
seeing after my customers,” said he, glancing over the plain. 

“ Good-day,” said I. 

“Good-day,” said the man slowly, but without moving, and 
as if in reflection. After a moment or two, looking at me inquir- 
ingly, he added : “ Out of employ ? ” 

“ Yes,” said I, “ out of employ.” 

(292) 


1825.] 


PEA AND THIMBLE . 


293 


The man measured me with his eye as I lay on the ground. 

At length he said : “ May I speak a word or two to you, my 
lord ? ” 

“ As many as you please,” said I. 

“Then just come a little out of hearing, a little farther on the 
grass, if you please, my lord.” 

“Why do you call me my lord?” said I, as I arose and 
followed him. 

“ We of the thimble always calls our customers lords,” said 
the man; “ but I won’t call you such a foolish name any more; 
come along.” 

The man walked along the plain till he came to the side of a 
dry pit, when looking round to see that no one was nigh, he laid 
his table on the grass, and, sitting down with his legs over the 
side of the pit, he motioned me to do the same. “ So you are in 
want of employ,” said he, after I had sat down beside him. 

“ Yes,” said I, “ I am very much in want of employ.” 

“ I think I can find you some.” 

“What kind?” said I. 

“Why,” said the man, “I think you would do to be my 
bonnet.” 

“ Bonnet ! ” said I, “ what is that ? ” 

“ Don’t you know ? However, no wonder, as you had never 
heard of the thimble-and-pea game, but I will tell you. We of 
the game are very much exposed ; folks when they have lost their 
money, as those who play with us mostly do, sometimes uses 
rough language, calls us cheats, and sometimes knocks our hats 
over our eyes; and what’s more, with a kick under our table, 
cause the top deals to fly off ; this is the third table I have used 
this day, the other two being broken by uncivil customers : so 
we of the game generally like to have gentlemen go about with 
us to take our part, and encourage us, though pretending to know 
nothing about us ; for example, when the customer says, ‘ I’m 
cheated,’ the bonnet must say, ‘No, you a’n’t, it is all right’; or, 
when my hat is knocked over my eyes, the bonnet must square, 
and say, ‘ I never saw the man before in all my life, but I won’t 
see him ill-used ’ ; and so, when they kicks at the table, the 
bonnet must say, ‘ I won’t see the table ill-used, such a nice table, 
too ; besides, I want to play myself ; ’ and then I would say to 
the bonnet, ‘Thank you, my lord, them that finds, wins’; and 
then the bonnet plays, and I lets the bonnet win.” 

“ In a word,” said I, “the bonnet means the man who covers 
you, even as the real bonnet covers the head.” 


294 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“Just so,” said the man, “I see you are awake, and would 
soon make a first-rate bonnet.” 

“Bonnet,” said I, musingly; “bonnet; it is metaphorical.” 

“ Is it ?” said the man. 

“Yes,” said I, “ like the cant words — — ” 

“Bonnet is cant,” said the man ; “we of the thimble, as well 
as all clyfakers and the like, understand cant, as, of course, must 
every bonnet; so, if you are employed by me, you had better 
learn it as soon as you can, that we may discourse together 
without being understood by every one. Besides covering his 
principal, a bonnet must have his eyes about him, for the trade 
of the pea, though a strictly honest one, is not altogether lawful ; 
so it is the duty of the bonnet, if he sees the constable coming, 
to say, the gorgio’s welling.” 

“ That is not cant,” said I, “ that is the language of the 
Rommany Chals.” 

“ Do you know those people? ” said the man. 

“Perfectly,” said I, “and their language too.” 

“ I wish I did,” said the man, “ I would give ten pounds and 
more to know the language of the Rommany Chals. There’s 
some of it in the language of the pea and thimble ; how it came 
there I don’t know, but so it is. I wish I knew it, but it is 
difficult. You’ll make a capital bonnet; shall we close?” 

“What would the wages be? ” I demanded. 

“ Why, to a first-rate bonnet, as I think you would prove, I 
could afford to give from forty to fifty shillings a week.” 

“ Is it possible ?” said I. 

“ Good wages, a’n’t they ? ” said the man. 

“ First rate,” said I ; “ bonneting is more profitable than 
reviewing.” 

“ Anan ? ” said the man. 

“ Or translating ; I don’t think the Armenian would have 
paid me at that rate for translating his Esop.” 

“ Who is he?” said the man. 

“ Esop ? ” 

“ No, I know what that is, Esop’s cant for a hunchback ; 
but t’other? ” 

“ You should know,” said I. 

“ Never saw the man in all my life.” 

“Yes, you have,” said I, “and felt him too; don’t you 
remember the individual from whom you took the pocket-book?” 

“Oh, that was he; well, the less said about that matter the 
better ; I have left off that trade, and taken to this, which is a 


1825] 


HISTORY . 


295 


much better. Between ourselves, I am not sorry that I did not 
carry off that pocket-book ; if I had, it might have encouraged 
me in the trade, in which, had I remained, I might have been 
lagged, sent abroad, as I had been already imprisoned; so I 
determined to leave it off at all hazards, though I was hard up, 
not having a penny in the world.” 

“ And wisely resolved,” said I, “ it was a bad and dangerous 
trade ; I wonder you should ever have embraced it.” 

“ It is all very well talking,” said the man, “but there is a 
reason for everything; I am the son of a Jewess, by a military 
officer,” — and then the man told me his story. I shall not repeat 
the man’s story, it was a poor one, a vile one ; at last he observed : 
“So that affair which you know of determined me to leave the 
filching trade, and take up with a more honest and safe one ; so 
at last I thought of the pea and thimble, but I wanted funds, 
especially to pay for lessons at the hands of a master, for I knew 
little about it.” 

“Well,” said I, “ how did you get over that difficulty? ” 

“ Why,” said the man, “ I thought I should never have got 
over it. What funds could I raise ? I had nothing to sell ; the 
few clothes I had I wanted, for we of the thimble must always 
appear decent, or nobody would come near us. I was at my 
wits’ end ; at last I got over my difficulty in the strangest way in 
the world.” 

“ What was that?” 

“By an old thing which I had picked up some time before — 
a book.” 

“A book?” said I. 

“Yes, which I had taken out of your lordship’s pocket one 
day as you were walking the streets in a great hurry. I thought 
it was a pocket-book at first, full of bank notes, perhaps,” con- 
tinued he, laughing. “It was well for me, however, that it was 
not, for I should have soon spent the notes ; as it was, I had 
flung the old thing down with an oath, as soon as I brought it 
home. When I was so hard up, however, after the affair with 
that friend of yours, I took it up one day, and thought I might 
make something by it to support myself a day with. Chance or 
something else led me into a grand shop ; there was a man there 
who seemed to be the master, talking to a jolly, portly old 
gentleman, who seemed to be a country squire. Well, I went up 
to the first, and offered it for sale ; he took the book, opened it 
at the title-page, and then all of a sudden his eyes glistened, and 
he showed it to the fat, jolly gentleman, and his eyes glistened 


296 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


too, and I heard him say ‘ How singular ! ’ and then the two 
talked together in a speech I didn’t understand — I rather thought 
it was French, at any rate it wasn’t cant ; and presently the first 
asked me what I would take for the book. Now I am not 
altogether a fool nor am I blind, and I had narrowly marked all 
that passed, and it came into my head that now was the time for 
making a man of myself, at any rate I could lose nothing by a 
little confidence ; so I looked the man boldly in the face, and 
said : ‘ I will have five guineas for that book, there a’n’t such 
another in the whole world’. ‘ Nonsense,’ said the first man, 
‘ there are plenty of them, there have been nearly fifty editions to 
my knowledge ; I will give you five shillings.’ ‘ No,’ said I, ‘ I’ll not 
take it, for I don’t like to be cheated, so give me my book again ; 
and I attempted to take it away from the fat gentleman’s hand. 
‘ Stop,’ said the younger man, ‘ are you sure that you won’t take 

less?’ ‘Not a farthing,’ said I; which was not altogether true, 

but I said so. * Well,’ said the fat gentleman, ‘ I will give you what 
you ask ; ’ and sure enough he presently gave me the money ; so 
I made a bow, and was leaving the shop, when it came into my 
head that there was something odd in all this, and, as I had got 
the money in my pocket, I turned back, and, making another 
bow, said : ‘ May I be so bold as to ask why you gave me all this 

money for that ’ere dirty book ? When I came into the shop, I 

should have been glad to get a shilling for it; but I saw you 
wanted it, and asked five guineas.’ Then they looked at one 
another, and smiled, and shrugged up their shoulders. Then the 
first man, looking at me, said : ‘ Friend, you have been a little too 
sharp for us ; however, we can afford to forgive you, as my friend 
here has long been in quest of this particular book ; there are 
plenty of editions, as I told you, and a common copy is not worth 
five shillings; but this is a first edition, and a copy of the first 
edition is worth its weight in gold ’.” 

“So, after all, they outwitted you,” I observed. 

“ Clearly,” said the man ; “ I might have got double the price, 
had I known the value ; but I don’t care, much good may it do 
them, it has done me plenty. By means of it I have got into an 
honest, respectable trade, in which there’s little danger and plenty 
of profit, and got out of one which would have got me lagged 
sooner or later.” 

“ But,” said I, “ you ought to remember that the thing was 
not yours ; you took it from me, who had been requested by a 
poor old apple-woman to exchange it for a Bible.” 

“ Well,” said the man, “did she ever get her Bible?” 


1825.] 


BONNETING: 


297 


“ Yes,” said I, “ she got her Bible.” 

“ Then she has no cause to complain ; and, as for you, chance 
or something else has sent you to me, that I may make you 
reasonable amends for any loss you may have had. Here am I 
ready to make you my bonnet, with forty or fifty shillings a week, 
which you say yourself are capital wages.” 

“ I find no fault with the wages,” said I, “ but I don’t like the 
employ.” 

“ Not like bonneting,” said the man ; “ ah, I see, you would 
like to be principal ; well, a time may come — those long white 
fingers of yours would just serve for the business.” 

“ Is it a difficult one?” I demanded. 

“ Why, it is not very easy : two things are needful — natural 
talent, and constant practice ; but I’ll show you a point or two 
connected with the game ; ” and, placing his table between his 
knees as he sat over the side of the pit, he produced three 
thimbles, and a small brown pellet, something resembling a pea. 
He moved the thimble and pellet about, now placing it to all 
appearance under one, and now under another; “Under which 
is it now ? ” he said at last. “ Under that,” said I, pointing to 
the lowermost of the thimbles, which, as they stood, formed a 
kind of triangle. “No,” said he, “it is not, but lift it up and, 
when I lifted up the thimble, the pellet, in truth, was not under it. 
“It was under none of them,” said he, “it was pressed by my 
little finger against my palm ; ” and then he showed me how he 
did the trick, and asked me if the game was not a funny one ; 
and, on my answering in the affirmative, he said : “lam glad you 
like it, come along and let us win some money ”. 

Thereupon, getting up, he placed the table before him, and 
was moving away ; observing, however, that I did not stir, he 
asked me what I was staying for. “ Merely for my own pleasure,” 
said I, “ I like sitting here very well.” “ Then you won’t close ? ” 
said the man. “ By no means,” I replied, “ your proposal does 
not suit me.” “You may be principal in time,” said the man. 
“That makes no difference,” said I; and, sitting with my legs 
over the pit, I forthwith began to decline an Armenian noun. 
“That a’n’t cant,” said the man; “no, nor gypsy either. Well, 
if you won’t close, another will, I can’t lose any more time,” and 
forthwith he departed. 

And after I had declined four Armenian nouns, of different 
declensions, I rose from the side of the pit, and wandered about 
amongst the various groups of people scattered over the green. 
Presently I came to where the man of the thimbles was standing, 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


298 


with the table before him, and many people about him. “ Them 
who finds, wins, and them who can’t find, loses,” he cried. 
Various individuals tried to find the pellet, but all were unsuccess- 
ful, till at last considerable dissatisfaction was expressed, and the 
terms rogue and cheat were lavished upon him. “ Never cheated 
anybody in all my life,” he cried ; and, observing me at hand, 
“ didn’t I play fair, my lord ? ” he inquired. But I made no 
answer. Presently some more played, and he permitted one or 
two to win, and the eagerness to play with him became greater. 
After I had looked on for some time, I was moving away ; just 
then I perceived a short, thick personage, with a staff in his hand, 
advancing in a great hurry ; whereupon with a sudden impulse, I 
exclaimed : — 

Shoon thimble-engro ; 

Avella gorgio. 

The man who was in the midst of his pea-and-thimble process, no 
sooner heard the last word of the distich, than he turned an 
alarmed look in the direction of where I stood; then, glancing 
around, and perceiving the constable, he slipped forthwith his 
pellet and thimbles into his pocket, and, lifting up his table, he 
cried to the people about him, “ Make way ! ” and with a motion 
of his head to me, as if to follow him, he darted off with a swift- 
ness which the short, pursy constable could by no means rival ; 
and whither he went, or what became of him, I know not, inas- 
much as I turned away in another direction. 


CHAPTER LIV. 


And, as T wandered along the green, I drew near to a place 
where several men, with a cask beside them, sat carousing in the 
neighbourhood of a small tent. “ Here he comes,” said one of 
them, as I advanced, and standing up he raised his voice and 
sang : — 

Here the Gypsy gemman see, 

With his Roman jib and his rome and dree — 

Rome and dree, rum and dry 
Rally round the Rommany Rye. 

It was Mr. Petulengro, who was here diverting himself with 
several of his comrades ; they all received me with considerable 
frankness. “ Sit down, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “ and take 
a cup of good ale.” 

I sat down. “Your health, gentlemen,” said I, as I took the 
cup which Mr. Petulengro handed to me. 

“Aukko tu pios adrey Rommanis. Here is your health 
in Rommany, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro ; who, having refilled 
the cup, now emptied it at a draught. 

“Your health in Rommany, brother,” said Tawno Chikno, to 
whom the cup came next. 

“ The Rommany Rye,” said a third. 

“ The Gypsy gentleman,” exclaimed a fourth, drinking. 

And then they all sang in chorus 

Here the Gypsy gemman see, 

With his Roman jib and his rome and dree — 

Rome and dree, rum and dry 
Rally round the Rommany Rye. 

“And now, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “seeing that you 
have drunk and been drunken, you will perhaps tell us where you 
have been, and what about ? ” 

“I have been in the Big City,” said I, “writing lils.” 

“How much money have you got in your pocket, brother?” 
said Mr. Petulengro. 

(299) 


30o 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“ Eighteen pence,” said I ; “all I have in the world.” 

“ I have been in the Big City, too,” said Mr. Petulengro ; 
“but I have not written lils — I have fought in the ring — I have 
fifty pounds in my pocket — I have much more in the world. 
Brother, there is considerable difference between us.” 

“ I would rather be the lil-writer, after all,” said the tall, 
handsome, black man ; “ indeed, I would wish for nothing better.” 

“Why so?” said Mr. Petulengro. 

“ Because they have so much to say for themselves,” said the 
black man, “ even when dead and gone. When they are laid in 
the churchyard, it is their own fault if people a’n’t talking of them. 
Who will know, after I am dead, or bitchadey pawdel, that I was 
once the beauty of the world, or that you, Jasper, were ” 

“The best man in England of my inches. That’s true, 
Tawno — however, here’s our brother will perhaps let the world 
know something about us.” 

“Not he,” said the other, with a sigh; “he’ll have quite 
enough to do in writing his own lils, and telling the world how 
handsome and clever he was ; and who can blame him ? Not I. 
If I could write lils, every word should be about myself and my 
own tacho Rommanis — my own lawful wedded wife, which is the 
same thing. I tell you what, brother, I once heard a wise man 
say in Brummagem, that ‘ there is nothing like blowing one’s own 
horn,’ which I conceive to be much the same thing as writing 
one’s own lil.” 

After a little more conversation, Mr. Petulengro arose, and 
motioned me to follow him. “ Only eighteen pence in the world, 
brother ! ” said he, as we walked together. 

“Nothing more, I assure you. How came you to ask me 
how much money I had ? ” 

“Because there was something in your look, brother, some- 
thing very much resembling that which a person showeth who 
does not carry much money in his pocket. I was looking at 
my own face this morning in my wife’s looking-glass — I did not 
look as you do, brother.” 

“I believe your sole motive for inquiring,” said I, “was to 
have an opportunity of venting a foolish boast, and to let me 
know that you were in possession of fifty pounds.” 

“ What is the use of having money unless you let people know 
you have it?” said Mr. Petulengro. “It is not every one can 
read faces, brother; and, unless you knew I had money, how 
could you ask me to lend you any?” 

“ I am not going to ask you to lend me any.” 


1825 -] 


BLACKHEATH. 


301 


“Then you may have it without asking; as I said before, I 
have fifty pounds, all lawfully earnt money, got by fighting in the 
ring — I will lend you that, brother.” 

“You are very kind,” said I ; “ but I will not take it.” 

“Then the half of it?” 

“ Nor the half of it; but it is getting towards evening, I must 
go back to the Great City.” 

“ And what will you do in the Boro Foros ? ” 

“ I know not,” said I. 

“ Earn money? ” 

“ If I can.” 

“ And if you can’t ? ” 

“ Starve ! ” 

“ You look ill brother,” said Mr. Petulengro. 

“ I do not feel well ; the Great City does not agree with me. 
Should I be so fortunate as to earn some money, I would leave 
the Big City, and take to the woods and fields.” 

“You may do that, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, “whether 
you have money or not. Our tents and horses are on the other 
side of yonder wooded hill, come and stay with us ; we shall all 
be glad of your company, but more especially myself and my 
wife Pakomovna.” 

“ What hill is that ? ” I demanded. 

And then Mr. Petulengro told me the name of the hill. “We 
shall stay on t’other side of the hill a fortnight,” he continued ; “ and 
as you are fond of lil writing, you may employ yourself profitably 
whilst there. You can write the lil of him whose dook gallops 
down that hill every night, even as the living man was wont to 
do long ago.” 

“Who was he?” I demanded. 

“Jemmy Abershaw,” said Mr. Petulengro; “one of those 
whom we call Boro-drom-engroes, and the gorgios highwaymen. 
I once heard a rye say that the life of that man would fetch 
much money; so come to the other side of the hill, and write 
the lil in the tent of Jasper and his wife Pakomovna.” 

At first I felt inclined to accept the invitation of Mr. Petu- 
lengro ; a little consideration, however, determined me to decline 
it. I had always been on excellent terms with Mr. Petulengro, 
but I reflected that people might be excellent friends when they 
met occasionally in the street, or on the heath, or in the wood ; 
but that these very pedple when living together in a house, to 
say nothing of a tent, might quarrel. I reflected, moreover, 
that Mr. Petulengro had a wife. I had always, it is true, been 


302 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


a great favourite with Mrs. Petulengro, who had frequently been 
loud in her commendation of the young rye, as she called me, 
and his turn of conversation ; but this was at a time when I 
stood in need of nothing, lived under my parents’ roof, and 
only visited at the tents to divert and to be diverted. The times 
were altered, and I was by no means certain that Mrs. Petulengro, 
when she should discover that I was in need both of shelter and 
subsistence, might not alter her opinion both with respect to the 
individual and what he said — stigmatising my conversation as 
saucy discourse, and myself as a scurvy companion ; and that 
she might bring over her husband to her own way of thinking, 
provided, indeed, he should need any conducting. I therefore, 
though without declaring my reasons, declined the offer of Mr. 
Petulengro, and presently, after shaking him by the hand, bent 
again my course towards the Great City. 

I crossed the river at a bridge considerably above that hight 
of London ; for not being acquainted with the way, I missed 
the turning which should have brought me to the latter. Sud- 
denly I found myself in a street of which I had some recollection, 
and mechanically stopped before the window of a shop at which 
various publications were exposed ; it was that of the bookseller 
to whom I had last applied in the hope of selling my ballads or 
Ab Gwilym, and who had given me hopes that in the event of 
my writing a decent novel, or a tale, he would prove a purchaser. 
As I stood listlessly looking at the window, and the publications 
which it contained, I observed a paper affixed to the glass by 
wafers with something written upon it. I drew yet nearer for 
the purpose of inspecting it ; the writing was in a fair round hand 
— “A Novel or Tale is much wanted,” was what was written. 


CHAPTER LV. 


“ I must do something,” said I, as I sat that night in my lonely 
apartment, with some bread and a pitcher of water before me. 

Thereupon taking some of the bread, and eating it, I con- 
sidered what I was to do. “ I have no idea what I am to do,” 
said I, as I stretched my hand towards the pitcher, “unless — 
and here I took a considerable draught — I write a tale or a novel 

That bookseller,” I continued, speaking to myself, “ is 

certainly much in need of a tale or novel, otherwise he would 
not advertise for one. Suppose I write one, I appear to have 
no other chance of extricating myself from my present difficulties; 
surely it was Fate that conducted me to his window.” 

“ I will do it,” said I, as I struck my hand against the table; 
“ I will do it.” Suddenly a heavy cloud of despondency came 
over me. Could I do it? Had I the imagination requisite to 
write a tale or a novel ? “Yes, yes,” said I, as I struck my hand 
again against the table, “ I can manage it; give me fair play, and 
I can accomplish anything.” 

But should I have fair play ? I must have something to 
maintain myself with whilst I wrote my tale, and I had but 
eighteen pence in the world. Would that maintain me whilst 
I wrote my tale? Yes, I thought it would, provided I ate bread, 
which did not cost much, and drank water, which cost nothing ; 
it was poor diet, it was true, but better men than myself had 
written on bread and water; had not the big man told me so, 
or something to that effect, months before? 

It was true there was my lodging to pay for ; but up to the 
present time I owed nothing, and perhaps, by the time the people 
of the house asked me for money, I should have written a tale or 
a novel, which would bring me in money ; I had paper, pens and 
ink, and, let me not forget them, I had candles in my closet, all 
paid for, to light me during my night work. Enough, I would 
go doggedly to work upon my tale or novel. 

But what was the tale or novel to be about ? Was it to be a tale 
of fashionable life, about Sir Harry Somebody, and the Countess 

( 3°i) 


304 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


Something? But I knew nothing about fashionable people, and 
cared less ; therefore how should I attempt to describe fashionable 
life? What should the tale consist of? The life and adventures 
of some one. Good — but of whom? Did not Mr. Petulengro 
mention one Jemmy Abershaw? Yes. Did he not tell me that 
the life and adventures of Jemmy Abershaw would bring in much 
money to the writer? Yes, but I knew nothing of that worthy. 
I heard, it is true, from Mr. Petulengro, that when alive he 
committed robberies on the hill, on the side of which Mr. 
Petulengro had pitched his tents, and that his ghost still haunted 
the hill at midnight ; but those were scant materials out of which 
to write the man’s life. It is probable, indeed, that Mr. Petulengro 
would be able to supply me with further materials if I should 
apply to him, but I was in a hurry, and could not afford the time 
which it would be necessary to spend in passing to and from Mr. 
Petulengro, and consulting him. Moreover, my pride revolted 
at the idea of being beholden to Mr. Petulengro for the materials 
of the history. No, I would not write the history of Abershaw. 
Whose then — Harry Simms ? Alas, the life of Harry Simms had 
been already much better written by himself than I could hope 
to do it ; and, after all, Harry Simms, like Jemmy Abershaw, 
was merely a robber. Both, though bold and extraordinary men, 
were merely highwaymen. I questioned whether I could compose 
a tale likely to excite any particular interest out of the exploits of 
a mere robber. I want a character for my hero, thought I, 
something higher than a mere robber ; some one like — like Colonel 
B . By the way, why should I not write the life and adven- 
tures of Colonel B of Londonderry, in Ireland ? 

A truly singular man was this same Colonel B of London- 

derry, in Ireland ; a personage of most strange and incredible feats 
and daring, who had been a partisan soldier, a bravo — who, assisted 
by certain discontented troopers, nearly succeeded in stealing the 
crown and regalia from the Tower of London ; who attempted to 
hang the Duke of Ormond, at Tyburn ; and whose strange eventful 
career did not terminate even with his life, his dead body, on the 
circulation of an unfounded report that he did not come to his 
death by fair means, having been exhumed by the mob of his 
native place, where he had retired to die, and carried in the coffin 
through the streets. 

Of his life I had inserted an account in the Newgate Lives and 
Trials ; it was bare and meagre, and written in the stiff, awkward 
style of the seventeenth century ; it had, however, strongly capti- 
vated my imagination, and I now thought that out of it something 


1825.] 


JOSEPH SELL. 


305 


better could be made ; that, if I added to the adventures, and 
purified the style, I might fashion out of it a very decent tale or 
novel. On a sudden, however, the proverb of mending old 
garments with new cloth occurred to me. “ I am afraid,” said I, 
“ any new adventures which I can invent will not fadge well with 
the old tale; one will but spoil the other.” I had better have 

nothing to do with Colonel B , thought I, but boldly and 

independently sit down and write the life of Joseph Sell. 

This Joseph Sell, dear reader, was a fictitious personage who 
had just come into my head. I had never even heard of the 
name, but just at that moment it happened to come into my head ; 
I would write an entirely fictitious narrative, called the Life and 
Adventures of Joseph Sell, the Great Traveller. 

I had better begin at once, thought I ; and removing the 
bread and the jug, which latter was now empty, I seized pen 
and paper, and forthwith essayed to write the life of Joseph Sell, 
but soon discovered that it is much easier to resolve upon a 
thing than to achieve it, or even to commence it ; for the life of 
me I did not know how to begin, and, after trying in vain to write 
a line, I thought it would be as well to go to bed, and defer my 
projected undertaking till the morrow. 

So I went to bed, but not to sleep. During the greater part 
of the night I lay awake, musing upon the work which I had 
determined to execute. For a long time my brain was dry and 
unproductive; I could form no plan which appeared feasible. 
At length I felt within my brain a kindly glow ; it was the 
commencement of inspiration ; in a few minutes I had formed 
my plan ; I then began to imagine the scenes and the incidents. 
Scenes and incidents flitted before my mind’s eye so plentifully 
that I knew not how to dispose of them ; I was in a regular 
embarrassment. At length I got out of the difficulty in the easiest 
manner imaginable, namely, by consigning to the depths of 
oblivion all the feebler and less stimulant scenes and incidents, 
and retaining the better and more impressive ones. Before 
morning I had sketched the whole work on the tablets of my 
mind, and then resigned myself to sleep in the pleasing conviction 
that the most difficult part of my undertaking was achieved. 


20 


CHAPTER LVI. 


Rather late in the morning I awoke ; for a few minutes I lay 
still, perfectly still ; my imagination was considerably sobered ; 
the scenes and situations which had pleased me so much over 
night appeared to me in a far less captivating guise that morning. 
I felt languid and almost hopeless — the thought, however, of my 
situation soon roused me — I must make an effort to improve the 
posture of my affairs ; there was no time to be lost ; so I sprang 
out of bed, breakfasted on bread and water, and then sat down 
doggedly to write the life of Joseph Sell. 

It was a great thing to have formed my plan, and to have 
arranged the scenes in my head, as I had done on the preceding 
night. The chief thing requisite at present was the mere me- 
chanical act of committing them to paper. This I did not find 
at first so easy as I could wish — I wanted mechanical skill ; but 
I persevered, and before evening I had written ten pages. I 
partook of some bread and water ; and, before I went to bed that 
night, I had completed fifteen pages of my life of Joseph Sell. 

The next day I resumed my task — I found my power of 
writing considerably increased ; my pen hurried rapidly over the 
paper — my brain was in a wonderfully teeming state; many 
scenes and visions which I had not thought of before were evolved, 
and, as fast as evolved, written down ; they seemed to be more 
pat to my purpose, and more natural to my history, than many 
others which I had imagined before, and which I made now give 
place to these newer creations : by about midnight I had added 
thirty fresh pages to my Life and Adventures of foseph Sell. 

The third day arose — it was dark and dreary out of doors, 
and I passed it drearily enough within ; my brain appeared to 
have lost much of its former glow, and my pen much of its power ; 
I, however, toiled on, but at midnight had only added seven 
pages to my history of Joseph Sell. 

On the fourth day the sun shone brightly — I arose, and, 
having breakfasted as usual, I fell to work. My brain was this 
day wonderfully prolific, and my pen never before or since glided 


1825.] 


“A MERE DRUG! 


307 


so rapidly over the paper ; towards night I began to feel strangely 
about the back part of my head, and my whole system was 
extraordinarily affected. I likewise occasionally saw double — a 
tempter now seemed to be at work within me. 

“You had better leave off now for a short space,” said the 
tempter, “ and go out and drink a pint of beer ; you have still 
one shilling left — if you go on at this rate, you will go mad— go 
out and spend sixpence, you can afford it, more than half your 
work is done.” I was about to obey the suggestion of the 
tempter, when the idea struck me that, if I did not complete the 
work whilst the fit was on me, I should never complete it ; so I 
held on. I am almost afraid to state how many pages I wrote 
that day of the life of Joseph Sell. 

From this time I proceeded in a somewhat more leisurely 
manner; but, as I drew nearer and nearer to the completion of 
my task, dreadful fears and despondencies came over me. It 
will be too late, thought I ; by the time I have finished the work, 
the bookseller will have been supplied with a tale or a novel. Is 
it probable that, in a town like this, where talent is so abundant 
— hungry talent too — a bookseller can advertise for a tale or a 
novel, without being supplied with half a dozen in twenty-four 
hours? I may as well fling down my pen — I am writing to no 
purpose. And these thoughts came over my mind so often, that 
at last, in utter despair, I flung down the pen. Whereupon the 
tempter within me said : “ And, now you have flung down the 
pen, you may as well fling yourself out of the window ; what 
remains for you to do ? ” Why, to take it up again, thought I to 
myself, for I did not like the latter suggestion at all — and then 
forthwith I resumed the pen, and wrote with greater vigour than 
before, from about six o’clock in the evening until I could hardly 
see, when I rested for awhile, when the tempter within me again 
said, or appeared to say: “All you have been writing is stuff, it 
will never do — a drug — a mere drug ” ; and methought these last 
words were uttered in the gruff tones of the big publisher. “ A 
thing merely to be sneezed at,” a voice like that of Taggart 
added ; and then I seemed to hear a sternutation, — as I probably 
did, for, recovering from a kind of swoon, I found myself shiver- 
ing with cold. The next day I brought my work to a conclusion. 

But the task of revision still remained ; for an hour or two I 
shrank from it, and remained gazing stupidly at the pile of paper 
which I had written over. I was all but exhausted, and I dreaded, 
on inspecting the sheets, to find them full of absurdities which I 
had paid no regard to in the furor of composition. But the task, 


3°8 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


however trying to my nerves, must be got over ; at last, in a kind 
of desperation, I entered upon it. It was far from an easy one ; 
there were, however, fewer errors and absurdities than I had 
anticipated. About twelve o’clock at night I had got over the 
task of revision. “To-morrow, for the bookseller,” said I, as my 
head sank on the pillow. “ Oh me 1” 


CHAPTER LVII. 


On arriving at the bookseller’s shop, I cast a nervous look at the 
window, for the purpose of observing whether the paper had been 
removed or not. To my great delight the paper was in its place ; 
with a beating heart I entered, there was nobody in the shop ; as 
I stood at the counter, however, deliberating whether or not I 
should call out, the door of what seemed to be a back-parlour 
opened, and out came a well-dressed lady-like female, of about 
thirty, with a good-looking and intelligent countenance. “What 
is your business, young man ? ” said she to me, after I had made 
her a polite bow. “I wish to speak to the gentleman of the 
house,” said I. “ My husband is not within at present,” she 
replied; “what is your business?” “I have merely brought 
something to show him,” said I, “but I will call again.” “If 
you are the young gentleman who has been here before,” said 
the lady, “ with poems and ballads, as, indeed, I know you are,” 
she added, smiling, “for I have seen you through the glass door, 
I am afraid it will be useless ; that is,” she added with another 
smile, “if you bring us nothing else.” “I have not brought 
you poems and ballads now,” said I, “but something widely 
different ; I saw your advertisement for a tale or a novel, and 
have written something which I think will suit ; and here it is,” 
I added, showing the roll of paper which I held in my hand. 
“ Well,” said the bookseller’s wife, “ you may leave it, though I 
cannot promise you much chance of its being accepted. My 
husband has already had several offered to him ; however, you 
may leave it; give it me. Are you* afraid to entrust it to me?” 
she demanded somewhat hastily, observing that I hesitated. 
“ Excuse me,” said I, “ but it is all I have to depend upon in 
the world ; I am chiefly apprehensive that it will not be read.” 
“ On that point I can reassure you,” said the good lady, smiling, 
and there was now something sweet in her smile. “ I give you 
my word that it shall be read ; come again to-morrow morning at 
eleven, when, if not approved, it shall be returned to you.” 

I returned to my lodging, and forthwith betook myself to bed, 

( 3 ° 9 ) 


3 io 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


notwithstanding the earliness of the hour. I felt tolerably tran- 
quil ; I had now cast my last stake, and was prepared to abide 
by the result. Whatever that result might be, I could have 
nothing to reproach myself with ; I had strained all the energies 
which nature had given me in order to rescue myself from the 
difficulties which surrounded me. I presently sank into a sleep, 
which endured during the remainder of the day, and the whole of 
the succeeding night. I awoke about nine on the morrow, and 
spent my last threepence on a breakfast somewhat more luxurious 
than the immediately preceding ones, for one penny of the sum 
was expended on the purchase of milk. 

At the appointed hour I repaired to the house of the book- 
seller; the bookseller was in his shop. “Ah,” said he, as soon 
as 1 entered, “ I am glad to see you.” There was an unwonted 
heartiness in the bookseller’s tones, an unwanted benignity in his 
face. “So,” said he, after a pause, “you have taken my advice, 
written a book of adventure ; nothing like taking the advice, 
young man, of your superiors in age. Well, I think your book 
will do, and so does my wife, for whose judgment I have a great 
regard ; as well I may, as she is the daughter of a first-rate 
novelist, deceased. I think I shall venture on sending your 
book to the press.” “But,” said I, “we have not yet agreed 
upon terms.” “Terms, terms,” said the bookseller; “ahem! 
well, there is nothing like coming to terms at once. I will print 
the book, and give you half the profit when the edition is sold.” 
“ That will not do,” said I ; “ I intend shortly to leave London : 
I must have something at once.” “Ah, I see,” said the book- 
seller, “ in distress ; frequently the case with authors, especially 
young ones. Well, I don’t care if I purchase it of you, but you 
must be moderate ; the public are very fastidious, and the 
speculation may prove a losing one, after all. Let me see, will 

five hem” — he stopped. I looked the bookseller in the 

face ; there was something peculiar in it. Suddenly it appeared 
to me as if the voice of him of the thimble sounded in my ear : 
“Now is your time, ask enough, never such another chance of es- 
tablishing yourself ; respectable trade, pea and thimble ”. “Well,” 
said I at last, “ I have no objection to take the offer which you 
were about to make, though I really think five-and-twenty guineas 
to be scarcely enough, everything considered.” “ Five-and-twenty 
guineas!” said the bookseller ; “are you — what was I going to 
say — I never meant to offer half as much— I mean a quarter ; I 
was going to say five guineas — I mean pounds ; I will, however, 
make it up guineas.” “That will not do,” said I; “but, as I 


1825.] 


TWENTY POUNDS. 


3 *i 


find we shall not deal, return me my manuscript, that I may 
carry it to some one else.” The bookseller looked blank. “ Dear 
me,” said he, “ I should never have supposed that you would have 
made any objection to such an offer ; I am quite sure that you 
would have been glad to take five pounds for either of the two huge 
manuscripts of songs and ballads that you brought me on a former 
occasion.” “ Well,” said I, “if you will engage to publish either 
of those two manuscripts, you shall have the present one for five 
pounds.” “ God forbid that I should make any such bargain,” 
said the bookseller; “I would publish neither on any account; 
but, with respect to this last book, I have really an inclination 
to print it, both for your sake and mine; suppose we say ten 
pounds.” “No,” said I, “ten pounds will not do; pray restore 
me my manuscript.” “Stay,” said the bookseller, “my wife is in 
the next room, I will go and consult her.” Thereupon he went 
into his back-room, where I heard him conversing with his wife 
in a low tone ; in about ten minutes he returned. “ Young 
gentleman,” said he, “perhaps you will take tea with us this 
evening, when we will talk further over the matter.” 

That evening I went and took tea with the bookseller and his 
wife, both of whom, particularly the latter, overwhelmed me with 
civility. It was not long before I learned that the work had been 
already sent to the press, and was intended to stand at the head 
of a series of entertaining narratives, from which my friends 
promised themselves considerable profit. The subject of terms 
was again brought forward. I stood firm to my first demand for 
a long time ; when, however, the bookseller’s wife complimented 
me on my production in the highest terms, and said that she 
discovered therein the germs of genius, which she made no doubt 
would some day prove ornamental to my native land, I consented 
to drop my demand to twenty pounds, stipulating, however, that 
I should not be troubled with the correction of the work. 

Before I departed I received the twenty pounds, and departed 
with a light heart to my lodgings. 

Reader, amidst the difficulties and dangers of this life, should 
you ever be tempted to despair, call to mind these latter chapters 
of the life of Lavengro. There are few positions, however diffi- 
cult, from which dogged resolution and perseverance may not 
liberate you. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 


I had long ago determined to leave London as soon as the means 
should be in my power, and, now that they were, I determined to 
leave the Great City ; yet I felt some reluctance to go. I would 
fain have pursued the career of original authorship which had 
just opened itself to me, and have written other tales of adventure. 
The bookseller had given me encouragement enough to do so ; 
he had assured me that he should be always happy to deal with 
me for an article (that was the word) similar to the one I had 
brought him, provided my terms were moderate ; and the book- 
seller’s wife, by her complimentary language, had given me yet 
more encouragement. But for some months past I had been 
far from well, and my original indisposition, brought on partly by 
the peculiar atmosphere of the Big City, partly by anxiety of 
mind, had been much increased by the exertions which I had 
been compelled to make during the last few days. I felt that, 
were I to remain where I was, I should die, or become a 
confirmed valetudinarian. I would go forth into the country, 
travelling on foot, and, by exercise and inhaling pure air, en- 
deavour to recover my health, leaving my subsequent movements 
to be determined by Providence. 

But whither should I bend my course? Once or twice I 
thought of walking home to the old town, stay some time with 
my mother and my brother, and enjoy the pleasant walks in the 
neighbourhood; but, though I wished very much to see my 
mother and my brother, and felt much disposed to enjoy the said 
pleasant walks, the old town was not exactly the place to which I 
wished to go at this present juncture. I was afraid the people 
would ask, Where are your Northern Ballads? Where are your 
alliterative translations from Ab Gwilym — of which you were 
always talking, and with which you promised to astonish the 
world? Now, in the event of such interrogations, what could I 
answer? It is true I had compiled Newgate Lives and Trials , 
and had written the life of Joseph Sell, but I was afraid that the 
people of the old town would scarcely consider these as equiva- 


22 nd May, 1825.] 


THE DEPARTURE. 


3i3 


lents for the Northern Ballads and the songs of Ab Gwilym. I 
would go forth and wander in any direction but that of the old 
town. 

But how one’s sensibility on any particular point diminishes 
with time ! At present, I enter the old town perfectly indifferent 
as to what the people may be thinking on the subject of the 
songs and ballads. With respect to the people themselves, 
whether, like my sensibility, their curiosity has altogether evapor- 
ated, or whether, which is at least equally probable, they never 
entertained any, one thing is certain, that never in a single 
instance have they troubled me with any remarks on the subject 
of the songs and ballads. 

As it was my intention to travel on foot, with a bundle and 
a stick, I despatched my trunk containing some few clothes and 
books to the old town. My preparations were soon made; in 
about three days I was in readiness to start. 

Before departing, however, I bethought me of my old friend 
the apple-woman of London Bridge. Apprehensive that she 
might be labouring under the difficulties of poverty, I sent her a 
piece of gold by the hands of a young maiden in the house in 
which I lived. The latter punctually executed her commission, 
but brought me back the piece of gold. The old woman would 
not take it ; she did not want it, she said. “ Tell the poor thin 
lad,” she added, “ to keep it for himself, he wants it more than I.” 

Rather late one afternoon I departed from my lodging, with 
my stick in one hand and a small bundle in the other, shaping 
my course to the south-west. When I first arrived, somewhat 
more than a year before, I had entered the city by the north-east. 
As I was not going home, I determined to take my departure in 
the direction the very opposite to home. 

Just as I was about to cross the street called the Haymarket 
at the lower part, a cabriolet, drawn by a magnificent animal, 
came dashing along at a furious rate ; it stopped close by the 
curb-stone where I was, a sudden pull of the reins nearly 
bringing the spirited animal upon its haunches. The Tehu who 
had accomplished this feat was Francis Ardry. A small beautiful 
female, with flashing eyes, dressed in the extremity of fashion, 
sat beside him. 

“Holloa, friend,” said Francis Ardry, “whither bound?” 

“ I do not know,” said I ; “all I can say is, that I am about 
to leave London.’* 

“And the means? ” said Francis Ardry. 

“ I have them,” said I, with a cheerful smile. 


3 H 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


Qui est celui-ci ? ” demanded the small female impatiently. 

“ C’est mon ami le plus intime ; so you were about to 

leave London without telling me a word,” said Francis Ardry 
somewhat angrily. 

“ I intended to have written to you,” said I : “ what a splendid 
mare that is ! ” 

“Is she not?” said Francis Ardry, who was holding in the 
mare with difficulty ; “she cost a hundred guineas.” 

“ Qu’est-ce quildit ? ” demanded his companion. 

“ II dit que le cheval est bien beau .” 

“ A lions, mon ami \ il est tard ,” said the beauty, with a 
scornful toss of her head ; “ allons ! ” 

“ Encore un moment" said Francis Ardry; “and when shall 
I see you again ? ” 

“ I scarcely know,” I replied : “ I never saw a more splendid 
turn-out.” 

“ Qu’est-ce qu’ildit ?" said the lady again. 

“// dit que tout t equipage est en assez bon gout." 

“ Allons , c’est un ours" said the lady ; “ le cheval meme en a 
peur ,” added she, as the mare reared up on high. 

“ Can you find nothing else to admire but the mare and the 
equipage?” said Francis Ardry reproachfully, after he had with 
some difficulty brought the mare to order. 

Lifting my hand, in which I held my stick, I took off my hat. 
“ How beautiful ! ” said I, looking the lady full in the face. 

“ Comment ? ” said the lady inquiringly. 

“ II dit que vous etes belle comme un angel’ said Francis Ardry 
emphatically. 

“ Mais d la bonne heure ! arretez , mon ami" said the lady to 
Francis Ardry, who was about to drive off ; “ je voudrais bien 
causer un moment avec lui ; arretez , il est delicieux. Est-ce bien 
ainsi que vous traitez vos amis ? ” said she passionately, as Francis 
Ardry lifted up his whip. “ Bonj our, Monsieur , bonjour" said 
she, thrusting her head from the side and looking back, as Francis 
Ardry drove off at the rate of thirteen miles an hour. 


CHAPTER LIX. 


In about two hours I had cleared the Great City, and got beyond 
the suburban villages, or rather towns, in the direction in which I 
was travelling ; I was in a broad and excellent road, leading I 
knew not whither. I now slackened my pace, which had hitherto 
been great. Presently, coming to a milestone on which was 
graven nine miles, I rested against it, and looking round towards 
the vast city, which had long ceased to be visible, I fell into a 
train of meditation. 

I thought of all my ways and doings since the day of my first 
arrival in that vast city. I had worked and toiled, and, though I 
had accomplished nothing at all commensurate with the hopes 
which I had entertained previous to my arrival, I had achieved 
my own living, preserved my independence, and become indebted 
to no one. I was now quitting it, poor in purse, it is true, but 
not wholly empty ; rather ailing, it may be, but not broken in 
health ; and, with hope within my bosom, had I not cause upon 
the whole to be thankful ? Perhaps there were some who, arriving 
at the same time under not more favourable circumstances, had 
accomplished much more, and whose future was far more hopeful 
— Good ! But there might be others who, in spite of all their 
efforts, had been either trodden down in the press, never more to 
be heard of, or were quitting that mighty town broken in purse, 
broken in health, and, oh ! with not one dear hope to cheer them. 
Had I not, upon the whole, abundant cause to be grateful? 
Truly, yes ! 

My meditation over, I left the milestone and proceeded on 
my way in the same direction as before until the night began to 
close in. I had always been a good pedestrian ; but now, whether 
owing to indisposition or to not having for some time past been 
much in the habit of taking such lengthy walks, I began to feel 
not a little weary. Just as I was thinking of putting up for the 
night at the next inn or public-house I should arrive at, I heard 
what sounded like a coach coming up rapidly behind me. 
Induced, perhaps, by the weariness which I felt, I stopped and 

(3 I S) 


3 i6 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


looked wistfully in the direction of the sound ; presently up came 
a coach, seemingly a mail, drawn by four bounding horses — there 
was no one upon it but the coachman and the guard ; when 
nearly parallel with me it stopped. “Want to get up?” sounded 
a voice in the true coachman-like tone — half-querulous, half- 
authoritative. I hesitated ; I was tired, it is true, but I had left 
London bound on a pedestrian excursion, and I did not much 
like the idea of having recourse to a coach after accomplishing so 
very inconsiderable a distance. “ Come, we can’t be staying here 
all night,” said the voice, more sharply than before. “ I can ride 
a little way, and get down whenever I like,” thought I ; and 
springing forward I clambered up the coach, and was going to sit 
down upon the box, next the coachman. “No, no,” said the 
coachman, who was a man about thirty, with a hooked nose and 
red face, dressed in a fashionably cut greatcoat, with a fashionable 
black castor on his head. “ No, no, keep behind — the box a’n’t 
for the like of you,” said he, as he drove off ; “ the box is for 

lords, or gentlemen at least.” I made no answer. “ D that 

off-hand leader,” said the coachman, as the right-hand front horse 
made a desperate start at something he saw in the road ; and, 
half rising, he with great dexterity hit with his long whip the off- 
hand leader a cut on the off cheek. “These seem to be fine 
horses,” said I. The coachman made no answer. “Nearly 
thorough-bred,” I continued ; the coachman drew his breath, with 
a kind of hissing sound, through his teeth. “Come, young 
fellow, none of your chaff. Don’t you think, because you ride on 
my mail, I’m going to talk to you about ’orses. I talk to nobody 
about ’orses except lords.” “Well,” said I, “I have been 
called a lord in my time.” “ It must have been by a thimble- 
rigger, then,” said the coachman, bending back, and half-turning 
his face round with a broad leer. “You have hit the mark 
wonderfully,” said I. “You coachmen, whatever else you may 
be, are certainly no fools.” “We a’n’t, a’n’t we?” said the 
coachman. “ There you are right ; and, to show you that you 
are, I’ll now trouble you for your fare. If you have been amongst 
the thimble-riggers you must be tolerably well cleared out. Where 

are you going?— to ? I think I have seen you there. The 

fare is sixteen shillings. Come, tip us the blunt ; them that has 
no money can’t ride on my mail.” 

Sixteen shillings was a large sum, and to pay it would make a 
considerable inroad on my slender finances ; I thought, at first, 
that I would say I did not want to go so far ; but then the fellow 
would ask at once where I wanted to go, and I was ashamed to 


1825.] 


AMES BURY, WILTS. 


3 i 7 


acknowledge my utter ignorance of the road. I determined, 
therefore, to pay the fare, with a tacit determination not to mount 
a coach in future without knowing whither I was going. So I paid 
the man the money, who, turning round, shouted to the guard — 

“ All right, Jem ; got fare to ,” and forthwith whipped on 

his horses, especially the off-hand leader, for whom he seemed to 
entertain a particular spite, to greater speed than before — the 
horses flew. 

A young moon gave a feeble light, partially illuminating a 
line of road which, appearing by no means interesting, I the less 
regretted having paid my money for the privilege of being hurried 
along it in the flying vehicle. We frequently changed horses ; 
and at last my friend the coachman was replaced by another, 
the very image of himself — hawk nose, red face, with narrow- 
rimmed hat and fashionable benjamin. After he had driven 
about fifty yards, the new coachman fell to whipping one of the 

horses. “ D this near-hand wheeler,” said he, “ the brute 

has got a corn.” “ Whipping him won’t cure him of his corn,” 
said I. “Who told you to speak?” said the driver, with an oath ; 
“ mind your own business ; ’tisn’t from the like of you I am to 
learn to drive ’orses.” Presently I fell into a broken kind of 
slumber. In an hour or two I was aroused by a rough voice — 

“ Got to , young man ; get down if you please ”. I opened 

my eyes — there was a dim and indistinct light, like that which 
precedes dawn ; the coach was standing still in something like 
a street; just below me stood the guard. “Do you mean to 
get down,” said he, “or will you keep us here till morning? 
other fares want to get up.” Scarcely knowing what I did, I 
took my bundle and stick and descended, whilst two people 
mounted. “All right, John,” said the guard to the coachman, 
springing up behind ; whereupon off whisked the coach, one or 
two individuals who were standing by disappeared, and I was 
left alone. 


CHAPTER LX. 


After standing still a minute or two, considering what I should 
do, I moved down what appeared to be the street of a small 
straggling town ; presently I passed by a church, which rose 
indistinctly on my right hand ; anon there was the rustling of 
foliage and the rushing of waters. I reached a bridge, beneath 
which a small stream was running in the direction of the south. 
I stopped and leaned over the parapet, for I have always loved to 
look upon streams, especially at the still hours. “ What stream 
is this, I wonder ?”said I, as I looked down from the parapet 
into the water, which whirled and gurgled below. 

Leaving the bridge, I ascended a gentle acclivity, and presently 
reached what appeared to be a tract of moory undulating ground. 
It was now tolerably light, but there was a mist or haze abroad 
which prevented my seeing objects with much precision. I felt chill 
in the damp air of the early morn, and walked rapidly forward. 
In about half an hour I arrived where the road divided into two 
at an angle or tongue of dark green sward. “To the right or the 
left?” said I, and forthwith took, without knowing why, the left- 
hand road, along which I proceeded about a hundred yards, 
when, in the midst of the tongue of sward formed by the two 
roads, collaterally with myself, I perceived what I at first con- 
ceived to be a small grove of blighted trunks of oaks, barked 
and grey. I stood still for a moment, and then, turning off the 
road, advanced slowly towards it over the sward ; as I drew 
nearer, I perceived that the objects which had attracted my 
curiosity, and which formed a kind of circle, were not trees, but 
immense upright stones. A thrill pervaded my system ; just 
before me were two, the mightiest of the whole, tall as the stems 
of proud oaks, supporting on their tops a huge transverse stone, 
and forming a wonderful doorway. I knew now where I was, and, 
laying down my stick and bundle, and taking off my hat, I ad- 
vanced slowly, and cast myself — it was folly, perhaps, but I could 
not help what I did — cast myself, with my face on the dewy earth, 
in the middle of the portal of giants, beneath the transverse stone. 

(3.18) 













wffisffmJBMI 

nMEMi 



Stonehenge. 

Lavengro .] [Facing page 318. 







STONEHENGE. 


3i9 


1825.] 


The spirit of Stonehenge was strong upon me ! 

And after 1 had remained with my face on the ground for 
some time, I arose, placed my hat on my head, and taking up 
my stick and bundle, wandered around the wondrous circle, 
examining each individual stone, from the greatest to the least, 
and then entering by the great door, seated myself upon an 
immense broad stone, one side of which was supported by 
several small ones, and the other slanted upon the earth; and 
there in deep meditation I sat for an hour or two, till the sun 
shone in my face above the tall stones of the eastern side. 

And as I still sat there, I heard the noise of bells, and 
presently a large number of sheep came browzing past the circle 
of stones ; two or three entered, and grazed upon what they 
could find, and soon a man also entered the circle at the northern 
side. 

“ Early here, sir,” said the man, who was tall, and dressed in 
a dark green slop, and had all the appearance of a shepherd ; “a 
traveller, I suppose?” 

“ Yes,” said I, “ I am a traveller ; are these sheep yours ? ” 
“They are, sir; that is, they are my master’s. A strange 
place this, sir,” said he, looking at the stones; “ever here before?” 
“ Never in body, frequently in mind.” 

“ Heard of the stones, I suppose ; no wonder — all the people 
of the plain talk of them.” 

“ What do the people of the plain say of them ? ” 

“ Why, they say — How did they ever come here ? ” 

“ Do they not suppose them to have been brought? ” 

‘ Who should have brought them ? ” 

“ I have read that they were brought by many thousand men.” 
“ Where from ? ” 

“ Ireland.” 

“ How did they bring them ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ And what did they bring them for? ” 

“ To form a temple, perhaps.” 

“ What is that? ” 

“ A place to worship God in.” 

“ A strange place to worship God in.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ It has no roof.” 

“ Yes, it has.” 

“ Where? ” said the man looking up. 

“ What do you see above you?” 


320 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“ The sky.” 

“Well?” 

“ Well ! ” 

“ Have you anything to say ? ” 

“ How did these stones come here? ” 

“Are there other stones like these on the plains?” said I. 

“None; and yet there are plenty of strange things on these 
downs.” 

“ What are they? ” 

“ Strange heaps, and barrows, and great walls of earth built 
on the tops of hills.” 

“ Do the people of the plain wonder how they came there?” 

“ They do not.” 

“Why?” 

“ They were raised by hands.” 

“ And these stones ? ” 

“ How did they ever come here ? ” 

“ I wonder whether they are here?” said I. 

“ These stones ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ So sure as the world,” said the man ; “ and, as the world, 
they will stand as long.” 

“ I wonder whether there is a world.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ An earth and sea, moon and stars, sheep and men.” 

“ Do you doubt it ? ” 

“ Sometimes.” 

“ I never heard it doubted before.” 

“ It is impossible there should be a world.” 

“ It a’ n’t possible there shouldn’t be a world.” 

“Just so.” At this moment a fine ewe attended by a lamb, 
rushed into the circle and fondled the knees of the shepherd. 
“I suppose you would not care to have some milk,” said the 
man. 

“ Why do you suppose so ? ” 

“ Because, so be, there be no sheep, no milk, you know ; and 
what there ben’t is not worth having.” 

“You could not have argued better,” said I; “that is, 
supposing you have argued ; with respect to the milk, you may do 
as you please.” 

“ Be still, Nanny,” said the man ; and producing a tin vessel 
from his scrip, he milked the ewe into it. “ Here is milk of the 
plains, master,” said the man, as he handed the vessel to me. 


1825-1 


11 AVON IS BRITISH. 


321 


“ Where are those barrows and great walls of earth you were 
speaking of,” said I, after I had drank some of the milk; “are 
there any near where we are ? ” 

“ Not within many miles ; the nearest is yonder away,” said 
the shepherd, pointing to the south-east. “ It’s a grand place, that, 
but not like this ; quite different, and from it you have a sight of 
the finest spire in the world.” 

“I must go to it,” said I, and I drank the remainder of the 
milk ; “ yonder, you say.” 

“ Yes, yonder ; but you cannot get to it in that direction, the 
river lies between.” 

“ What river? ” 

“ The Avon.” 

“ Avon is British,” said I. 

“ Yes,” said the man, “ we are all British here.” 

“No, we are not,” said I. 

“ What are we then ? ” 

“ English.” 

“ A’n’t they one? ” 

“No.” 

“ Who were the British ? ” 

“ The men who are supposed to have worshipped God in this 
place, and who raised these stones.” 

“ Where are they now ? ” 

“ Our forefathers slaughtered them, spilled their blood all 
about, especially in this neighbourhood, destroyed their pleasant 
places, and left not, to use their own words, one stone upon 
another.” 

“Yes, they did,” said the shepherd, looking aloft at the 
transverse stone. 

“ And it is well for them they did ; whenever that stone, 
which English hands never raised, is by English hands thrown 
down, woe, woe, woe to the English race ; spare it, English ! 
Hengist spared it ! — Here is sixpence.” 

“ I won’t have it,” said the man. 

“ Why not? ” 

“ You talk so prettily about these stones ; you seem to know 
all about them.” 

“ I never receive presents ; with respect to the stones, I say 
with yourself, How did they ever come here ! ” 

“ How did they ever come here ! ” said the shepherd. 


CHAPTER LXI. 


Leaving the shepherd, I bent my way in the direction pointed 
out by him as that in which the most remarkable of the strange 
remains of which he had spoken lay. I proceeded rapidly, making 
my way over the downs covered with coarse grass and fern ; with 
respect to the river of which he had spoken, I reflected that, either 
by wading or swimming, I could easily transfer myself and what 
I bore to the opposite side. On arriving at its banks, I found it 
a beautiful stream, but shallow, with here and there a deep place, 
where the water ran dark and still. 

Always fond of the pure lymph, I undressed, and plunged 
into one of these gulfs, from which I emerged, my whole frame in 
a glow, and tingling with delicious sensations. After conveying 
my clothes and scanty baggage to the farther side, I dressed, and 
then with hurried steps bent my course in the direction of some 
lofty ground ; I at length found myself on a high road, leading 
over wide and arid downs ; following the road for some miles 
without seeing anything remarkable, I supposed at length that I 
had taken the wrong path, and wended on slowly and disconso- 
lately for some time, till, having nearly surmounted a steep hill, 
I knew at once, from certain appearances, that I was near the 
object of my search. Turning to the right near the brow of the 
hill, I proceeded along a path which brought me to a causeway 
leading over a deep ravine, and connecting the hill with another 
which had once formed part of it, for the ravine was evidently 
the work of art. I passed over the causeway, and found myself 
in a kind of gateway which admitted me into a square space of 
many acres, surrounded on all sides by mounds or ramparts ot 
earth. Though I had never been in such a place before, I knew 
that I stood within the precincts of what had been a Roman 
encampment, and one probably of the largest size, for many 
thousand warriors might have found room to perform their evolu- 
tions in that space, in which corn was now growing, the green 
ears waving in the morning wind. 

After I had gazed about the space for a time, standing in the 

(3 2 2 ) 


1825.] 


OLD SARUM. 


323 


gateway formed by the mounds, I clambered up the mound to 
the left hand, and on the top of that mound I found myself at a 
great altitude ; beneath, at the distance of a mile, was a fair old 
city, situated amongst verdant meadows, watered with streams, 
and from the heart of that old city, from amidst mighty trees, I 
beheld towering to the sky the finest spire in the world. 

After I had looked from the Roman rampart for a long time, 
I hurried away, and, retracing my steps along the causeway, re- 
gained the road, and, passing over the brow of the hill, descended 
to the city of the spire. 


CHAPTER LXII. 


And in the old city I remained two days, passing my time as I 
best could — inspecting the curiosities of the place, eating and 
drinking when I felt so disposed, which I frequently did, the 
digestive organs having assumed a tone to which for many 
months they had been strangers — enjoying at night balmy sleep 
in a large bed in a dusky room, at the end of a corridor, in a 
certain hostelry in which I had taken up my quarters — receiving 
from the people of the hostelry such civility and condescension 
as people who travel on foot with bundle and stick, but who 
nevertheless are perceived to be not altogether destitute of coin, 
are in the habit of receiving. On the third day, on a fine sunny 
afternoon, I departed from the city of the spire. 

As I was passing through one of the suburbs, I saw, all on a 
sudden, a respectable-looking female fall down in a fit; several 
persons hastened to her assistance. “ She is dead,” said one. 
“ No, she is not,” said another. “ I am afraid she is,” said a 

third. “ Life is very uncertain,” said a fourth. “It is Mrs. ” 

said a fifth ; “ let us carry her to her own house.” Not being 
able to render any assistance, I left the poor female in the hands 
of her townsfolk, and proceeded on my way. I had chosen a 
road in the direction of the north-west, it led over downs where 
corn was growing, but where neither tree nor hedge were to be 
seen; two or three hours’ walking brought me to a beautiful 
valley, abounding with trees of various kinds, with a delightful 
village at its farthest extremity ; passing through it I ascended a 
lofty acclivity, on the top of which I sat down on a bank, and 
taking off my hat, permitted a breeze, which swept coolly and 
refreshingly over the downs, to dry my hair, dripping from the 
effects of exercise and the heat of the day. 

And as I sat there, gazing now at the blue heavens, now at 
the downs before me, a man came along the road in the direction 
in which I had hitherto been proceeding : just opposite to me he 
stopped, and, looking at me, cried: “Am I right for London, 
master?” 


(324) 


NORTH-WEST. 


325 


1825.] 


He was dressed like a sailor, and appeared to be between 
twenty-five and thirty years of age; he had an open manly 
countenance, and there was a bold and fearless expression in his 
eye. 

“Yes,” said I, in reply to his question; “this is one of the 
ways to London. Do you come from far? ” 

“From ,” said the man, naming a well-known sea-port. 

“Is this the direct road to London from that place?” I 
demanded. 

“No,” said the man ; “but I had to visit two or .three other 
places on certain commissions I was entrusted with ; amongst 

others to , where I had to take a small sum of money. I 

am rather tired, master; and, if you please, I will sit down beside 
you.” 

“ You have as much right to sit down here as I have,” said I, 
“ the road is free for every one ; as for sitting down beside me, 
you have the look of an honest man, and I have no objection to 
your company.” 

“Why, as for being honest, master,” said the man, laughing 
and sitting down by me, “ I hav’n’t much to say — many is 
the wild thing I have done when I was younger ; however, what 
is done, is done. To learn, one must live, master ; and I have 
lived long enough to learn the grand point of wisdom.” 

“ What is that? ” said I. 

“ That honesty is the best policy, master.” 

“You appear to be a sailor,” said I, looking at his dress. 

“ I was not bred a sailor,” said the man, “ though, when my 
foot is on the salt water, I can play the part — and play it well too. 
I am now from a long voyage.” 

“From America?” said I. 

“ Farther than that,” said the man. 

“ Have you'any objection to tell me? ” said I. 

“ From New South Wales,” said the man, looking me full in 
the face. 

“ Dear me,” said I. 

“ Why do you say ‘ Dear me’?” said the man. 

“ It is a very long way off,” said I. 

“ Was that your reason for saying so ? ” said the man. 

“ Not exactly,” said I. 

“ No,” said the man, with something of a bitter smile ; “ it 
was something else that made you say so ; you were thinking of 
the convicts.” 

“Well,” said I, “what then — you are no convict.” 


j26 


LA VENGRO. 


C*a»5- 


“ How do you know ? *’ 

“You do not look like one.” 

“Thank you, master,” said the man cheerfully; “and, to a 
certain extent, you are right — bygones are bygones — I am no 
longer what I was, nor ever will be again ; the truth, however, is 
the truth — a convict I have been — a convict at Sydney Cove.” 

“And you have served out the period for which you were 
sentenced, and are now returned?” 

“ As to serving out my sentence,” replied the man, “ I can’t 
say that I did ; I was sentenced for fourteen years, and I was in 
Sydney Cove little more than half that time. The truth is that I 
did the Government a service. There was a conspiracy amongst 
some of the convicts to murder and destroy — I overheard and 
informed the Government ; mind one thing, however, I was not 
concerned in it ; those who got it up were no comrades of mine, 
but a bloody gang of villains. Well, the Government, in con- 
sideration of the service I had done them, remitted the remainder 
of my sentence ; and some kind gentlemen interested themselves 
about me, gave me good books and good advice, and, being 
satisfied with my conduct, procured me employ in an exploring 
expedition, by which I earned money. In fact, the being sent to 
Sydney was the best thing that ever happened to me in all my 
life.” 

“ And you have now returned to your native country. 
Longing to see home brought you from New South Wales.” 

“There you are mistaken,” said the man. “Wish to see 
England again would never have brought me so far ; for, to tell 
you the truth, master, England was a hard mother to me, as she 
has proved to many. No, a wish to see another kind of mother 
— a poor old woman whose son I am — has brought me back.” 

“You have a mother, then? ’’said I. “Does she reside in 
London ?” 

“ She used to live in London,” said the man ; “ but I am 
afraid she is long since dead.” 

“ How did she support herself? ” said I. 

“ Support herself! with difficulty enough ; she used to keep a 
small stall on London Bridge, where she sold fruit ; I am afraid 
she is dead, and that she died perhaps in misery. She was a 
poor sinful creature ; but I loved her, and she loved me. I came 
all the way back merely for the chance of seeing her.” 

“ Did you ever write to her,” said I, “or cause others to write 
to her? ” 

“ I wrote to her myself,” said the man, “ about two years ago ; 


1825.] 


THE EX-CONVICT. 


3*7 


but I never received an answer. I learned to write very tolerably 
over there, by the assistance of the good people I spoke of. As 
for reading, I could do that very well before I went — my poor 
mother taught me to read, out of a book that she was very fond 
of ; a strange book it was, I remember. Poor dear ! what I 
would give only to know that she is alive.” 

“ Life is very uncertain,” said I. 

“ That is true,” said the man, with a sigh. 

“ We are here one moment, and gone the next,” I continued. 
“ As I passed through the streets of a neighbouring town, I saw 
a respectable woman drop down, and people said she was dead. 
Who knows but that she too had a son coming to see her from a 
distance, at that very time.” 

“Who knows, indeed,” said the man. “Ah, I am afraid my 
mother is dead. Well, God’s will be done.” 

“ However,” said I, “ I should not wonder at your finding 
your mother alive.” 

“You wouldn’t?” said the man, looking at me wistfully. 

“ I should not wonder at all,” said I ; “ indeed, something 
within me seems to tell me you will; I should not much mind 
betting five shillings to five pence that you will see your mother 
within a week. Now, friend, five shillings to five pence ” 

“ Is very considerable odds,” said the man, rubbing his 
hands; “sure you must have good reason to hope, when you 
are willing to give such odds.” 

“ After all,” said I, “it not unfrequently happens that those 
who lay the long odds lose. Let us hope, however. What 
do you mean to do in the event of finding your mother 
alive? ” 

“ I scarcely know,” said the man ; “ I have frequently thought 
that if I found my mother alive I would attempt to persuade her 
to accompany me to the country which I have left — it is a better 
country for a man — that is a free man — to live in than this ; how- 
ever, let me first find my mother — if I could only find my 
mother ! ” 

“ Farewell,” said I, rising. “ Go your way, and God go with 
you — I will go mine.” “I have but one thing to ask you,” said 
the man. “What is that?” I inquired. “That you would 
drink with me before we part — you have done me so much 
good.” “How should we drink?” said I; “we are on the top 
of a hill where there is nothing to drink.” “But there is a 
village below,” said the man ; “ do let us drink before we part.” 
“ I have been through that village already,” said I, “and I do 


3*8 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


not like turning back.” “Ah,” said the man sorrowfully, “you 
will not drink with me because I told you I was ” 

“You are quite mistaken,” said I, “I would as soon drink 
with a convict as with a judge. I am by no means certain that, 
under the same circumstances, the judge would be one whit 
better than the convict. Come along ! I will go back to oblige 
you. I have an odd sixpence in my pocket, which I will change, 
that I may drink with you.” So we went down the hill together 
to the village through which I had already passed, where, finding 
a public-house, we drank together in true English fashion, after 
which we parted, the sailor-looking man going his way and I 
mine. 

After walking about a dozen miles, I came to a town, where I 
rested for the night. The next morning I set out again in the 
direction of the north-west. I continued journeying for four 
days, my daily journeys varying from twenty to twenty-five miles. 
During this time nothing occurred to me worthy of any especial 
notice. The weather was brilliant, and I rapidly improved both 
in strength and spirits. On the fifth day, about two o’clock, I 
arrived at a small town. Feeling hungry, I entered a decent- 
looking inn. Within a kind of bar I saw a huge, fat, landlord- 
looking person, with a very pretty, smartly-dressed maiden. 
Addressing myself to *the fat man, “ House 1 ” said I, “house! 
Can I have dinner, house?” 


CHAPTER LXIIL 


“Young gentleman,” said the huge, fat landlord, “you are come 
at the right time ; dinner will be taken up in a few minutes, and 
such a dinner,” he continued, rubbing his hands, “as you will 
not see every day in these times.” 

“ I am hot and dusty,” said I, “ and should wish to cool my 
hands and face.” 

“Jenny!” said the huge landlord, with the utmost gravity, 
“ show the gentleman into number seven that he may wash his 
hands and face.” 

“ By no means,” said I, “lama person of primitive habits, 
and there is nothing like the pump in weather like this.” 

“ Jenny ! ” said the landlord, with the same gravity as before, 
“ go with the young gentleman to the pump in the back kitchen, 
and take a clean towel along with you.” 

Thereupon the rosy-faced clean-looking damsel went to a 
drawer, and producing a large, thick, but snowy-white towel, she 
nodded to me to follow her-; whereupon I followed Jenny 
through a long passage into the back kitchen. 

And at the end of the back kitchen there stood a pump ; and 
going to it I placed my hands beneath the spout, and said, 
“ Pump, Jenny,” and Jenny incontinently, without laying down 
the towel, pumped with one hand, and I washed and cooled my 
heated hands. 

And, when my hands were washed and cooled, I took off my 
neckcloth, and unbuttoning my shirt collar, I placed my head 
beneath the spout of the pump, and I said unto Jenny : “ Now, 
Jenny, lay down the towel, and pump for your life ”. 

Thereupon Jenny, placing the towel on a linen-horse, took the 
handle of the pump with both hands and pumped over my head 
as handmaid had never pumped before; so that the water poured 
in torrents from my head, my face, and my hair down upon the 
brick floor. 

And after the lapse of somewhat more than a minute, I called 
out with a half-strangled voice, “ Hold, Jenny ! ” and Jenny 

( 3 2 9 ) 


33d 


La VEtfGRd. 


[1825. 


desisted. I stood for a few moments to recover my breath, then 
taking the towel which Jenny proffered, I dried composedly my 
hands and head, my face and hair ; then, returning the towel to 
Jenny, I gave a deep sigh and said : “ Surely this is one of the 
pleasant moments of life 

Then, having set my dress to rights, and combed my hair 
with a pocket comb, I followed Jenny, who conducted me back 
through the long passage, and showed me into a neat, sanded 
parlour on the ground floor. 

I sat down by a window which looked out upon the dusty 
street ; presently in came the handmaid, and commenced laying 
the table-cloth. “ Shall I spread the table for one, sir,” said she, 
“ or do you expect anybody to dine with you ? ” 

“ I can’t say that I expect anybody,” said I, laughing inwardly 
to myself ; “ however, if you please you can lay for two, so that 
if any acquaintance of mine should chance to step in, he ma> 
find a knife and fork ready for him.” 

So I sat by the window, sometimes looking out upon the dusty 
street, and now glancing at certain old-fashioned prints which 
adorned the wall over against me. I fell into a kind of doze, 
from which I was almost instantly awakened by the opening of 
the door. Dinner, thought I ; and I sat upright in my chair. 
No, a man of the middle age, and rather above the middle 
height dressed in a plain suit of black, made his appearance, and 
sat down in a chair at some distance from me, but near to the 
table, and appeared to be lost iii thought. 

“ The weather is very warm, sir,” said I. 

“ Very,” said the stranger laconically, looking at me for the 
first time. 

“ Would you like to see the newspaper ? ” said I, taking up 
one which lay on the window seat. 

“ I never read newspapers,” said the stranger, “ nor, indeed 

” Whatever it might be that he had intended to say he 

left unfinished. Suddenly he walked to the mantelpiece at the 
farther end of the room, before which he placed himself with his 
back towards me. There he remained motionless for some time ; 
at length, raising his hand, he touched the corner of the mantel- 
piece with his finger, advanced towards the chair which he had 
left, and again seated himself. 

“ Have you come far ? ” said he, suddenly looking towards me, 
and speaking in a frank and open manner, which denoted a wish 
to enter into conversation. “You do not seem to be of this 
place.” 


1825.] 


THE INN. 


331 


“ I come from some distance,” said I ; “ indeed, I am walking 
for exercise, which I find as necessary to the mind as the body. 
I believe that by exercise people would escape much mental 
misery.” 

Scarcely had I uttered these words when the stranger laid his 
hand, with seeming carelessness, upon the table, near one of the 
glasses; after a moment or two he touched the glass with his 
finger as if inadvertently, then, glancing furtively at me, he with- 
drew his hand and looked towards the window. 

“ Are you from these parts ? ” said I at last, with apparent 
carelessness. 

“ From this vicinity,” replied the stranger. “ You think, then, 
that it is as easy to walk off the bad humours of the mind as of 
the body.” 

“ I, at least, am walking in that hope,” said I. 

“ I wish you may be successful,” said the stranger ; and here 
he touched one of the forks which lay on the table near him. 

Here the door, which was slightly ajar, was suddenly pushed 
open with some fracas, and in came the stout landlord, support- 
ing with some difficulty an immense dish, in which was a mighty 
round mass of smoking meat garnished all round with vegetables ; 
so high was the mass that it probably obstructed his view, for it 
was not until he had placed it upon the table that he appeared 
to observe the stranger ; he almost started, and quite out of 
breath exclaimed : “ God bless me, your honour ; is your honour 
the acquaintance that the young gentleman was expecting ? ” 

“ Is the young gentleman expecting an acquaintance ? ” said 
the stranger. 

There is nothing like putting a good face upon these matters, 
thought I to myself ; and, getting up, I bowed to the unknown. 
“Sir,” said I, “when I told Jenny that she might lay the table- 
cloth for two, so that in the event of any acquaintance dropping 
in he might find a knife and fork ready for him, I was merely 
jocular, being an entire stranger in these parts, and expecting no 
one. Fortune, however, it would seem, has been unexpectedly 
kind to me ; I flatter myself, sir, that since you have been in 
this, room I have had the honour of making your acquaintance ; 
and in the strength of that hope I humbly entreat you to honour 
me with your company to dinner, provided you have not already 
dined.” 

The stranger laughed outright. 

“ Sir,” I continued, “ the round of beef is a noble one, and 
seems exceedingly well boiled, and the landlord was just right 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


33 ^ 


when he said I should have such a dinner as is not seen every 
day. A round of beef, at any rate such a round of beef as this, 
is seldom seen smoking upon the table in these degenerate times. 
Allow me, sir,” said I, observing that the stranger was about to 
speak, “ allow me another remark. I think I saw you just now 
touch the fork, I venture to hail it as an omen that you will 
presently seize it and apply it to its proper purpose, and its com- 
panion the knife also.” 

The stranger changed colour, and gazed upon me in silence. 

“Do, sir,” here put in the landlord; “do, sir, accept the 
young gentleman’s invitation. Your honour has of late been 
looking poorly, and the young gentleman is a funny young gentle- 
man, and a clever young gentleman ; and I think it will do your 
honour good to have a dinner’s chat with the young gentleman.” 

“ It is not my dinner hour,” said the stranger ; “ I dine con- 
siderably later ; taking anything now would only discompose me ; 
I shall, however, be most happy to sit down with the young gentle- 
man ; reach me that paper, and, when the young gentleman has 
satisfied his appetite, we may perhaps have a little chat together.” 

The landlord handed the stranger the newspaper, and, bowing, 
retired with his maid Jenny. I helped myself to a portion of the 
smoking round, and commenced eating with no little appetite. 
The stranger appeared to be soon engrossed with the newspaper. 
We continued thus a considerable time — the one reading and the 
other dining. Chancing suddenly to cast my eyes upon the 
stranger, I saw his brow contract ; he gave a slight stamp with 
his foot, and flung the newspaper to the ground, then stooping 
down he picked it up, first moving his forefinger along the floor, 
seemingly slightly scratching it with his nail. 

“ Do you hope, sir,” said I, “ by that ceremony with the 
finger to preserve yourself from the evil chance ? ” 

The stranger started ; then, after looking at me for some 
time in silence, he said : “ Is it possible that you ? ” 

“Ay, ay,” said I, helping myself to some more of the round, 
“ I have touched myself in my younger days, both for the evil 
chance and the good. Can’t say, though, that I ever trusted 
much in the ceremony.” 

The stranger made no reply, but appeared to be in deep 
thought; nothing further passed between us until I had con- 
cluded the dinner, when I said to him : “ I shall now be most 
happy, sir, to have the pleasure of your conversation over a pint 
of wine ”. 

The stranger rose ; “ No, my young friend,” said he, smiling, 


THE INVITATION. 


333 


1825.] 


“ that would scarce be fair. It is my turn now — pray do me the 
favour to go home with me, and accept what hospitality my poor 
roof can offer ; to tell you the truth, I wish to have some par- 
ticular discourse with you which would hardly be possible in this 
place. As for wine, I can give you some much better than you 
can get here ; the landlord is an excellent fellow, but he is an 
innkeeper, after all. I am going out for a moment, and will send 
him in, so that you may settle your account ; I trust you will not 
refuse me, I only live about two miles from here.” 

I looked in the face of the stranger — it was a fine intelligent 
face, with a cast of melancholy in it. “ Sir,” said I, “ I would 
go with you though you lived four miles instead of two.” 

“ Who is that gentleman ? ” said I to the landlord, after I 
had settled his bill ; “ I am going home with him.” 

“ I wish I were going too,” said the fat landlord, laying his 
hand upon his stomach. “ Young gentleman, I shall be a loser 
by his honour’s taking you away ; but, after all, the truth is the 
truth — there are few gentlemen in these parts like his honour, 
either for learning or welcoming his friends. Young gentleman, 
I congratulate you.” 


CHAPTER LXIV. 


I found the stranger awaiting me at the door of the inn. “ Like . 
yourself, I am fond of walking,” said he, “ and when any little 
business calls me to this place I generally come on foot.” 

We were soon out of the town, and in a very beautiful country. 
After proceeding some distance on the high road, we turned off, 
and were presently in one of those mazes of lanes for which 
England is famous ; the stranger at first seemed inclined to be 
taciturn ; a few observations, however, which I made, appeared 
to rouse him, and he soon exhibited not only considerable powers 
of conversation, but stores of information which surprised me. So 
pleased did I become with my new acquaintance, that I soon 
ceased to pay the slightest attention either to place or distance. 

At length the stranger was silent, and I perceived that we had 
arrived at a handsome iron gate and a lodge ; the stranger having 
rung a bell, the gate was opened by an old man, and we proceeded 
along a gravel path, which in about five minutes brought us to a 
large brick house, built something in the old French style, having 
a spacious lawn before it, and immediately in front a pond in 
which were golden fish, and in the middle a stone swan discharg- 
ing quantities of water from its bill. We ascended a spacious 
flight of steps to the door, which was at once flung open, and two 
servants with powdered hair, and in livery of blue plush, came 
out and stood one on either side as we passed the threshold. We 
entered a large hall, and the stranger, taking me by the hand, 
welcomed me to his poor home, as he called it, and then gave 
orders to another servant, but out of livery, to show me to an 
apartment, and give me whatever assistance I might require in my 
toilette. Notwithstanding the plea as to primitive habits which I 
had lately made to my other host in the town, I offered no objec- 
tion to this arrangement, but followed the bowing domestic to a 
spacious and airy chamber, where he rendered me all those little 
nameless offices which the somewhat neglected state of my dress 
required. When everything had been completed to my perfect 
satisfaction, he told me that if I pleased he would conduct me to 
the library, where dinner would be speedily served. 


1825.] 


THE AUTHOR. 


335 


In the library I found a table laid for two ; my host was not 
there, having as I supposed not been quite so speedy with his 
toilette as his guest. Left alone, I looked round the apartment 
with inquiring eyes ; it was long and tolerably lofty, the walls from 
the top to the bottom were lined with cases containing books of 
all sizes and bindings ; there was a globe or two, a couch, and an 
easy chair. Statues and busts there were none, and only one 
painting, a portrait, that of my host, but not him of the mansion. 
Over the mantelpiece, the features staringly like, but so ridicu- 
lously exaggerated that they scarcely resembled those of a human 
being, daubed evidently by the hand of the commonest sign-artist, 
hung a half-length portrait of him of round of beef celebrity — my 
sturdy host of the town. 

I had been in the library about ten minutes, amusing myself 
as I best could, when my friend entered ; he seemed to have 
resumed his taciturnity — scarce a word escaped his lips till dinner 
was served, when he said, smiling : “ I suppose it would be merely 
a compliment to ask you to partake ? ” 

“I don’t know,” said I, seating myself; “your first course 
consists of troutlets, I am fond of troutlets, and I always like to 
be companionable.” 

The dinner was excellent, though I did but little justice to it 
from the circumstance of having already dined ; the stranger also, 
though without my excuse, partook but slightly of the good cheer; 
he still continued taciturn, and appeared lost in thought, and 
every attempt which I made to induce him to converse was signally 
unsuccessful. 

And now dinner was removed, and we sat over our wine, and 
I remember that the wine was good, and fully justified the enco- 
miums of my host of the town. Over the wine I made sure that 
my entertainer would have loosened the chain which seemed to 
tie his tongue — but no ! I endeavoured to tempt him by various 
topics, and talked of geometry and the use of the globes, of the 
heavenly sphere, and the star Jupiter, which I said I had heard 
was a very large star, also of the evergreen tree, which, according 
to Olaus, stood of old before the heathen temple of Upsal, and 
which I affirmed was a yew — but no, nothing that I said could 
induce my entertainer to relax his taciturnity. 

It grew dark, and I became uncomfortable ; “ I must presently 
be going,” I at last exclaimed. 

At these words he gave a sudden start ; “ Going,” said he, 
“ are you not my guest, and an honoured one ? ” 

“You know best,” said I ; “but I was apprehensive I was an 
intruder ; to several of my questions you have returned no answer ” 


336 


LA VENGRO . 


[1825. 


“ Ten thousand pardons ! ” he exclaimed, seizing me by the 
hand ; “ but you cannot go now, I have much to talk to you 
about — there is one thing in particular ” 

“If it be the evergreen tree at Upsal,” said I, interrupting 
him, “ I hold it to have been a yew — what else ? The evergreens 
of the south, as the old bishop observes, will not grow in the north, 
and a pine was unfitted for such a locality, being a vulgar tree. 
What else could it have been but the yew — the sacred yew which 
our ancestors were in the habit of planting in their churchyards ? 
Moreover, I affirm it to have been the yew for the honour of the 
tree ; for I love the yew, and had I home and land, I would have 
one growing before my front windows.” 

“You would do right; the yew is indeed a venerable tree, but 
it is not about the yew.” 

“ The star Jupiter, perhaps ? ” 

“ Nor the star Jupiter, nor its moons ; an observation which 
escaped you at the inn has made a considerable impression upon me.” 

“But I really must take my departure,” said I; “the dark 
hour is at hand.” 

And as I uttered these last words, the stranger touched rapidly 
something which lay near him, I forget what it was. It was the 
first action of the kind which I had observed on his part since we 
sat down to table. 

“You allude to the evil chance,” said I ; “but it is getting 
both dark and late.” 

“ I believe we are going to have a storm,” said my friend, 
“ but I really hope that you will give me your company for a day 
or two ; I have, as I said before, much to talk to you about.” 

“Well,” said I, “ I shall be most happy to be your guest for 
this night ; I am ignorant of the country, and it is not pleasant to 
travel unknown paths by night — dear me, what a flash of lightning ! ” 

It had become very dark ; suddenly a blaze of sheet-lightning 
illumed the room. By the momentary light I distinctly saw my 
host touch another object upon the table. 

“ Will you allow me to ask you a question or two ? ” said he 
at last. 

“ As many as you please,” said I ; “ but shall we not have lights ? ” 

“ Not unless you particularly wish it,” said my entertainer ; “ I 
rather like the dark, and though a storm is evidently at hand, neither 
thunder not lightning have any terrors for me. It is other things I 
quake at — I should rather say ideas. N ow, perm it me to ask you * ’ 

And then my entertainer asked me various questions, to all 
of which I answered unreservedly; he was then silent for some 


1825.] 


THE TOUCHING STORY. 


337 


time, at last he exclaimed : “ I should wish to tell you the history 
of my life ; though not an adventurous one, I think it contains 
some things which will interest you 

Without waiting for my reply he began. Amidst darkness 
and gloom, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning, the 
stranger related to me, as we sat at the table in the library, his 
truly touching history. 

“ Before proceeding to relate the events of my life, it will not 
be amiss to give you some account of my ancestors. My great- 
grandfather on the male side was a silk mercer, in Cheapside, who, 
when he died, left his son, who was his only child, a fortune of 
one hundred thousand pounds, and a splendid business ; the son, 
however, had no inclination for trade, the summit of his ambition 
was to be a country gentleman, to found a family, and to pass 
the remainder of his days in rural ease and dignity, and all this 
he managed to accomplish; he disposed of his business, pur- 
chased a beautiful and extensive estate for four score thousand 
pounds, built upon it the mansion to which I had the honour of 
welcoming you to-day, married the daughter of a neighbouring 
squire, who brought him a fortune of five thousand pounds, 
became a magistrate, and only wanted a son and heir to make 
him completely happy; this blessing, it is true, was for a long 
time denied him ; it came, however, at last, as is usual, when least 
expected. His lady was brought to bed of my father, and then 
who so happy a man as my grandsire ; he gave away two thousand 
pounds in charities, and in the joy of his heart made a speech at 
the next quarter sessions ; the rest of his life was spent in ease, 
tranquillity and rural dignity ; he died of apoplexy on the day that 
my father came of age; perhaps it would be difficult to mention 
a man who in all respects was so fortunate as my grandfather; 
his death was sudden, it is true, but I am not one of those who 
pray to be delivered from a sudden death. 

“ I should not call my father a fortunate man ; it is true that 
he had the advantage of a first-rate education ; that he made the 
grand tour with a private tutor, as was the fashion at that time ; 
that he came to a splendid fortune on the very day that he came 
of age; that for many years he tasted all the diversions of the 
capital ; that, at last determined to settle, he married the sister of 
a baronet, an amiable and accomplished lady, with a large fortune ; 
that he had the best stud of hunters in the county, on which, 
during the season, he followed the fox gallantly ; had he been a 
fortunate man he would never have cursed his fate, as he was 
frequently known to do ; ten months after his marriage his horse 

22 


338 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


fell upon him, and so injured him, that he expired in a few days 
in great agony. My grandfather was, indeed, a fortunate man ; 
when he died he was followed to the grave by the tears of the 
poor — my father was not. 

“ Two remarkable circumstances are connected with my birth 
— I am a posthumous child, and came into the world some weeks 
before the usual time, the shock which my mother experienced 
at my father’s death having brought on the pangs of premature 
labour ; both my mother’s life and my own were at first despaired 
of ; we both, however, survived the crisis. My mother loved me 
with the most passionate fondness, and I was brought up in this 
house under her own eye — I was never sent to school. 

“ I have already told you that mine is not a tale of adventure ; 
my life has not been one of action, but of wild imaginings and 
strange sensations; I was born with excessive sensibility, and 
that has been my bane. I have not been a fortunate man. 

“No one is fortunate unless he is happy, and it is impossible 
for a being constructed like myself to be happy for an hour, or 
even enjoy peace and tranquillity ; most of our pleasures and pains 
are the effects of imagination, and wherever the sensibility is 
great, the imagination is great also. No sooner has my imagina- 
tion raised up an image of pleasure, than it is sure to conjure up 
one of distress and gloom ; these two antagonistic ideas instantly 
commence a struggle in my mind, and the gloomy one generally, 
I may say invariably, prevails. How is it possible that I should 
be a happy man ? 

“ It has invariably been so with me from the earliest period 
that I can remember; the first playthings that were given me 
caused me for a few minutes excessive pleasure ; they were pretty 
and glittering; presently, however, I became anxious and per- 
plexed, I wished to know their history, how they were made, and 
what of — were the materials precious; I was not satisfied with 
their outward appearance. In less than an hour I had broken the 
playthings in an attempt to discover what they were made of. 

“When I was eight years of age my uncle the baronet, who 
was also my godfather, sent me a pair or Norway hawks, with 
directions for managing them ; he was a great fowler. Oh, how 
rejoiced was I with the present which had been made me, my joy 
lasted for at least five minutes ; I would let them breed, I would 
have a house of hawks ; yes, that I would — but — and here came 
the unpleasant idea — suppose they were to fly away, how very 
annoying! Ah, but, said hope, there’s little fear of that; feed 
them well and they will never fly away, or if they do they will 


1825.] 


the touching story. 


339 


come back, my uncle says so ; so sunshine triumphed for a little 
time. Then the strangest of all doubts came into my head ; I 
doubted the legality of my tenure of these hawks; how did I 
come by them ? why, my uncle gave them to me, but how did 
they come into his possession ? what right had he to them ? 
after all, they might not be his to give, — I passed a sleepless 
night. The next morning I found that the man who brought 
the hawks had not departed. ‘ How came my uncle by these 
hawks?’ I anxiously inquired. ‘They were sent to him from 
Norway, master, with another pair.’ ‘And who sent them?’ 
‘That I don’t know, master, but I suppose his honour can 
tell you.’ I was even thinking of scrawling a letter to my 
uncle to make inquiry on this point, but shame restrained me, 
and I likewise reflected that it would be impossible for him to 
give my mind entire satisfaction ; it is true he could tell who 
sent him the hawks, but how was he to know how the hawks came 
into the possession of those who sent t^m to him, and by what 
right they possessed them or the parents of the hawks. In a 
word, I wanted a clear valid title, as lawyers would say, to my 
hawks, and I believe no title would have satisfied me that did not 
extend up to the time of the first hawk, that is, prior to Adam ; 
and, could I have obtained such a title, I make no doubt that, 
young as I was, I should have suspected that it was full of flaws. 

“ I was now disgusted with the hawks, and no wonder, seeing 
all the disquietude they had caused me ; I soon totally neglected 
the poor birds, and they would have starved had not some of the 
servants taken compassion upon them and fed them. My uncle, 
soon hearing of my neglect, was angry, and took the birds away; 
he was a very good-natured man, however, and soon sent me a 
fine pony ; at first I was charmed with the pony, soon, however, 
the same kind of thoughts arose which had disgusted me on a 
former occasion. How did my uncle become possessed of the 
pony? This question I asked him the first time I saw him. Oh, 
he had bought it of a gypsy, that I might learn to ride upon it. 
A gypsy; I had heard that gypsies were great thieves, and I 
instantly began to fear that the gypsy had stolen the pony, and it 
is probable that for this apprehension I had better grounds than 
for many others. I instantly ceased to set any value upon the 
pony, but for that reason, perhaps, I turned it to some account ; 
I mounted it, and rode it about, which I don’t think I should 
have done had I looked upon it as a secure possession. Had I 
looked upon my title as secure, I should have prized it so much 
that I should scarcely have mounted it for fear of injuring the 


34<> 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


animal ; but now, caring not a straw for it, I rode it most un- 
mercifully, and soon became a capital rider. This was very selfish 
in me, and I tell the fact with shame. I was punished, however, 
as I deserved ; the pony had a spirit of its own, and, moreover, it 
had belonged to gypsies; once, as I was riding it furiously over 
the lawn, applying both whip and spur, it suddenly lifted up its 
heels, and flung me at least five yards over its head. I received 
some desperate contusions, and was taken up for dead ; it was 
many months before I perfectly recovered. 

“ But it is time for me to come to the touching part of my 
story. There was one thing that I loved better than the choicest 
gift which could be bestowed upon me, better than life itself 
— my mother ; at length she became unwell, and the thought 
that I might possibly lose her now rushed into my mind for the 
first time ; it was terrible, and caused me unspeakable misery, I 
may say horror. My mother became worse, and I was not allowed 
to enter her apartment, Jest by my frantic exclamations of grief I 
might aggravate her disorder. I rested neither day nor night, but 
roamed about the house like one distracted. Suddenly I found 
myself doing that which even at the time struck me as being highly 
singular ; I found myself touching particular objects that were near 
me, and to which my fingers seemed to be attracted by an irresistible 
impulse. It was now the table or the chair that I was compelled 
to touch ; now the bell-rope ; now the handle of the door ; now 
I would touch the wall, and the next moment stooping down, I 
would place the point of my finger upon the floor : and so I con- 
tinued to do day after day ; frequently I would struggle to resist 
the impulse, but invariably in vain. I have even rushed away 
from the object, but I was sure to return, the impulse was too 
strong to be resisted : I quickly hurried back, compelled by the 
feeling within me to touch the object. Now, I need not tell you 
that what impelled me to these actions was the desire to prevent 
my mother’s death ; whenever I touched any particular object, it 
was with the view of baffling the evil chance, as you would call it 
— in this instance my mother’s death. 

“ A favourable crisis occurred in my mother’s complaint, and she 
recovered ; this crisis took place about six o’clock in the morning ; 
almost simultaneously with it there happened to myself a rather 
remarkable circumstance connected with the nervous feeling 
which was rioting in my system. I was lying in bed in a kind of 
uneasy doze, the only kind of rest which my anxiety, on account 
of my mother, permitted me at this time to take, when all at once 
I sprang up as if electrified, the mysterious impulse was upon 


1825.] 


THE TOUCHING STORY. 


34 i 


me, and it urged me to go without delay, and climb a stately elm 
behind the house, and touch the topmost branch ; otherwise — you 
know the rest — the evil chance would prevail. Accustomed for 
some time as I had been, under this impulse, to perform extrava- 
gant actions, I confess to you that the difficulty and peril of such 
a feat startled me ; I reasoned against the feeling, and strove 
more strenuously than I had ever done before; I even made a 
solemn vow not to give way to the temptation, but I believe nothing 
less than chains, and those strong ones, could have restrained me. 
The demoniac influence, for I can call it nothing else, at length 
prevailed ; it compelled me to rise, to dress myself, to descend 
the stairs, to unbolt the door, and to go forth ; it drove me to the 
foot of the tree, and it compelled me to climb the trunk ; this was 
a tremendous task, and I only accomplished it after repeated falls 
and trials. When I had got amongst the branches, I rested for 
a time, and then set about accomplishing the remainder of the 
ascent ; this for some time was not so difficult, for I was now 
amongst the branches ; as I approached the top, however, the 
difficulty became greater, and likewise the danger ; but I was a 
light boy, and almost as nimble as a squirrel, and, moreover, the 
nervous feeling was within me, impelling me upward. It was 
only by means of a spring, however, that I was enabled to touch 
the top of the tree ; I sprang, touched the top of the tree, and fell 
a distance of at least twenty feet, amongst the branches ; had I 
fallen to the bottom I must have been killed, but I fell into the 
middle of the tree, and presently found myself astride upon one of 
the boughs ; scratched and bruised all over, I reached the ground, 
and regained my chamber unobserved ; I flung myself on my bed 
quite exhausted ; presently they came to tell me that my* mother 
was better — they found me in the state which I have de- 
scribed, and in a fever besides. The favourable crisis must 
have occurred just about the time that I performed the magic 
touch ; it certainly was a curious coincidence, yet I was not weak 
enough, even though a child, to suppose that I had baffled the 
evil chance by my daring feat. 

“Indeed, all the time that I was performing these strange 
feats, I knew them to be highly absurd, yet the impulse to perform 
them was irresistible — a mysterious dread hanging over me till 
I had given way to it ; even at that early period I frequently used 
to reason within myself as to what could be the cause of my pro- 
pensity to touch, but of course I could come to no satisfactory 
conclusion respecting it ; being heartily ashamed of the practice, 
I never spoke of it to any one, and was at all times highly 
solicitous that no one should observe my weakness?” 


CHAPTER LXV. 


After a short pause my host resumed his narration. “ Though 
I was never sent to school, my education was not neglected on 
that account ; I had tutors in various branches of knowledge, 
under whom I made a tolerable progress ; by the time I was 
eighteen I was able to read most of the Greek and Latin authors 
with facility ; I was likewise, to a certain degree, a mathematician. 

“ I cannot say that I took much pleasure in my studies; my 
chief aim in endeavouring to accomplish my tasks was to give 
pleasure to my beloved parent, who watched my progress with 
anxiety truly maternal. My life at this period may be summed 
up in a few words ; I pursued my studies, roamed about the 
woods, walked the green lanes occasionally, cast my fly in a trout 
stream, and sometimes, but not often, rode a hunting with my 
uncle. 

“ A considerable part of my time was devoted to my mother, 
conversing with her and reading to her; youthful companions I 
had none, and as to my mother, she lived in the greatest retire- 
ment, devoting herself to the superintendence of my education, 
and the practice of acts of charity ; nothing could be more inno- 
cent than this mode .of life, and some people say that in innocence 
there is happiness, yet I can’t say that I was happy. A continual 
dread overshadowed my mind, it was the dread of my mother’s 
death. Her constitution had never been strong, and it had been 
.considerably shaken by her last illness; this I knew, and this I 
saw — for the eyes of fear are marvellously keen. Well, things 
went on in this way till I had come of age ; my tutors were then 
dismissed, and my uncle the baronet took me in hand, telling my 
mother that it was high time for him to exert his authority ; that 
I must see something of the world, for that, if I remained much 
longer with her, I should be ruined. ‘ You must consign him to 
me,’ said he, ‘ and I will introduce him to the world.’ My mother 
sighed and consented ; so my uncle the baronet introduced me to 
the world, took me to horse races and to London, and endeavoured 
to make a mar* of me according to his idea of the term, and in part 


1825.] 


STORY CONTINUED. 


343 


succeeded. I became moderately dissipated — I say moderately, 
for dissipation had but little zest for me. 

“ In this manner four years passed over. It happened that I 
was in London in the height of the season with my uncle, at his 
house; one morning he summoned me into the parlour, he was 
standing before the fire, and looked very serious. £ I have had a 
letter,’ said he; ‘your mother is very ill.’ I staggered, and 
touched the nearest object to me ; nothing was said for two or 
three minutes, and then my uncle put his lips to my ear and 
whispered something. I fell down senseless. My mother was 

I remember nothing for a long time — for two years I was out 

of my mind ; at the end of this time I recovered, or partly so. 
My uncle the baronet was very kind to me ; he advised me to 
travel, he offered to go with me. I told him he was very kind, 
but I would rather go by myself. So I went abroad, and saw, 
amongst other things, Rome and the Pyramids. By frequent 
change of scene my mind became not happy, but tolerably tranquil. 
I continued abroad some years, when, becoming tired of travelling, 
I came home, found my uncle the baronet alive, hearty, and 
unmarried, as he still is. He received me very kindly, took me 
to Newmarket, and said that he hoped by this time I was become 
quite a man of the world ; by his advice I took a house in town, 
in which I lived during the season. In summer I strolled from 
one watering-place to another ; and, in order to pass the time, I 
became very dissipated. 

“ At last I became as tired of dissipation as I had previously 
been of travelling, and I determined to retire to the country, and 
live on my paternal estate ; this resolution I was not slow in 
putting into effect; I sold my house in town, repaired and re- 
furnished my country house, and for at least ten years, lived a 
regular country life ; I gave dinner parties, prosecuted poachers, 
was charitable to the poor, and now and then went into my library ; 
during this time I was seldom or never visited by the magic 
impulse, the reason being, that there was nothing in the wide 
world for which I cared sufficiently to move a finger to preserve it. 
When the ten years, however, were nearly ended, I started out 
of bed one morning in a fit of horror, exclaiming, ‘ Mercy, mercy ! 
what will become of me? I am afraid I shall go mad. I have 
lived thirty-five years and upwards without doing anything ; shall 
I pass through life in this manner ? Horror ! ’ And then in 
rapid succession I touched three different objects. 

“ I dressed myself and went down, determining to set about 
something ; but what was I to do ? — there was the difficulty. I 


344 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


ate no breakfast, but walked about the room in a state of distrac- 
tion ; at last I thought that the easiest way to do something was 
to get into Parliament, there would be no difficulty in that. I had 
plenty of money, and could buy a seat : but what was I to do in 
Parliament ? Speak, of course — but could I speak ? ‘ I’ll try at 

once,’ said I, and forthwith I rushed into the largest dining-room, 
and, locking the door, I commenced speaking ; ‘ Mr. Speaker,’ said 
I, and then I went on speaking for about ten minutes as I best could, 
and then I left off, for I was talking nonsense. No, I was not 
formed for Parliament ; I could do nothing there. What — what 
was I to do ? 

“ Many, many times I thought this question over, but was 
unable to solve it ; a fear now stole over me that I was unfit for 
anything in the world, save the lazy life of vegetation which I had for 
many years been leading; yet, if that were the case, thought I, why the 
craving within me to distinguish myself? Surely it does not occur 
fortuitously, but is intended to rouse and call into exercise certain 
latent powers that I possess? and then with infinite eagerness I 
set about attempting to discover these latent powers. I tried an 
infinity of pursuits, botany and geology amongst the rest, but in 
vain; I was fitted for none of them. I became very sorrowful 
and despondent, and at one time I had almost resolved to plunge 
again into the whirlpool of dissipation ; it was a dreadful resource, 
it was true, but what better could I do ? 

“But I was not doomed to return to the dissipation of the 
world. One morning a young nobleman, who had for some time 
past shown a wish to cultivate my acquaintance, came to me in a 
considerable hurry. ‘ I am come to beg an important favour of 
you,’ said he; ‘one of the county memberships is vacant — I 
intend to become a candidate ; what I want immediately is a 
spirited address to the electors. I have been endeavouring to 
frame one all the morning, but in vain ; I have, therefore, recourse 
to you as a person of infinite genius ; pray, my dear friend, 
concoct me one by the morning.’ ‘What you require of me,’ I 
replied, ‘ is impossible ; I have not the gift of words ; did I possess 
it I would stand for the county myself, but I can’t speak. Only 
the other day I attempted to make a speech, but left off suddenly, 
utterly ashamed, although I was quite alone, of the nonsense I 
was uttering.’ ‘ It is not a speech that I want,’ said my friend, 
‘ I can talk for three hours without hesitating, but I want an 
address to circulate through the county, and I find myself utterly 
incompetent to put one together ; do oblige me by writing one for 
me, I know you can ; and, if at any time you want a person to 


1825.] 


THE SURPRISE. 


345 


speak for you, you may command me not for three but for six 
hours. Good morning ; to-morrow I will breakfast with you.’ In 
the morning he came again. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘what success?’ 
‘ Very poor,’ said I ; ‘ but judge for yourself ; ’ and I put into 
his hand a manuscript of several pages. My friend read it through 
with considerable attention. ‘I congratulate you,’ said he, ‘and 
likewise myself ; I was not mistaken in my opinion of you ; the 
address is too long by at least two-thirds, or I should rather say it 
is longer by two-thirds than addresses generally are ; but it will 
do — I will not curtail it of a word. I shall win my election.’ 
And in truth he did win his election ; and it was not only his 
own but the general opinion that he owed it to the address. 

“ But, however that might be, I had, by writing the address, 
at last discovered what had so long eluded my search — what I 
was able to do. I, who had neither the nerve nor the command 
of speech necessary to constitute the orator — who had not the 
power of patient research required by those who would investigate 
the secrets of nature, had, nevertheless, a ready pen and teeming 
imagination. This discovery decided my fate — from that moment 
I became an author.” 


CHAPTER LX VI. 


“An author,” said I, addressing my host; “is it possible that I 
am under the roof of an author ? ” 

“Yes,” said my host, sighing, “my name is so and so, and I 
am the author of so and so ; it is more than probable that you 
have heard both of my name and works. I will not detain you 
much longer with my history ; the night is advancing, and the 
storm appears to be upon the increase. My life since the period 
of my becoming an author may be summed briefly as an almost 
uninterrupted series of doubts, anxieties and trepidations. I see 
clearly that it is not good to love anything immoderately in this 
world, but it has been my misfortune to love immoderately every- 
thing on which I have set my heart. This is not good, I repeat — 
but where is the remedy ? The ancients were always in the habit 
of saying, ‘Practise moderation,’ but the ancients appear to have 
considered only one portion of the subject. It is very possible to 
practice moderation in some things, in drink and the like — to 
restrain the appetites — but can a man restrain the affections of his 
mind, and tell them, so far you shall go, and no farther ? Alas, 
no ! for the mind is a subtle principle, and cannot be confined. 
The winds may be imprisoned ; Homer says that Odysseus carried 
certain winds in his ship, confined in leathern bags, but Homer 
never speaks of confining the affections. It were but right that 
those who exhort us against inordinate affections, and setting our 
hearts too much upon the world and its vanities, would tell us 
how to avoid doing so. 

“ I need scarcely tell you, that no sooner did I become an 
author, than I gave myself up immoderately to my vocation. It 
became my idol, and, as a necessary consequence, it has proved a 
source of misery and disquietude to me, instead of pleasure and 
blessing. I had trouble enough in writing my first work, and I 
was not long in discovering that it was one thing to write a stirring 
and spirited address to a set of county electors, and another widely 
different to produce a work at all calculated to make an impression 
upon the great world. I felt, however, that I was in my proper 


1825.] 


THE SEQUEL. 


347 


sphere, and by dint of unwearied diligence and exertion I succeeded 
in evolving from the depths of my agitated breast a work which, 
though it did not exactly please me, I thought would serve to 
make an experiment upon the public; so I laid it before the 
public, and the reception which it met with was far beyond my 
wildest expectations. The public were delighted with it, but 
what were my feelings? Anything, alas! but those of delight. 
No sooner did the public express its satisfaction at the result of 
my endeavours, than my perverse imagination began to conceive 
a thousand chimerical doubts ; forthwith I sat down to analyse it ; 
and my worst enemy, and all people have their enemies, especially 
authors — my worst enemy could not have discovered or sought 
to discover a tenth part of the faults which I, the author and 
creator of the unfortunate production, found or sought to find in 
it. It has been said that love makes us blind to the faults of the 
loved object — common love does, perhaps — the love of a father 
to his child, or that of a lover to his mistress, but not the inordin- 
ate love of an author to his works, at least not the love which one 
like myself bears to his works : to be brief, I discovered a thousand 
faults in my work, which neither public nor critics discovered. 
However, I was beginning to get over this misery, and to forgive 
my work all its imperfections, when — and I shake when I mention 
it — the same kind of idea which perplexed me with regard to the 
hawks and the gypsy pony rushed into my mind, and I forthwith 
commenced touching the objects around me, in order to baffle the 
evil chance, as you call it ; it was neither more nor less than a 
doubt of the legality of my claim to the thoughts, expressions and 
situations contained in the book ; that is, to all that constituted 
the book. How did I get them ? How did they come into my 
mind? Did I invent them? Did they originate with myself? 
Are they my own, or are they some other body’s? You see into 
what difficulty I had got ; I won’t trouble you by relating all that 
I endured at that time, but will merely say that after eating my 
own heart, as the Italians say, and touching every object that 
came in my way for six months, I at length flung my book, I 
mean the copy of it which I possessed, into the fire, and began 
another. 

“ But it was all in vain ; I laboured at this other, finished it, 
and gave it to the world ; and no sooner had I done so, than the 
same thought was busy in my brain, poisoning all the pleasure 
which I should otherwise have derived from my work. How did 
I get all the matter which composed it ? Out of my own mind, 
unquestionably ; but how did it come there — was it the indigenous 


34« 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


growth of the mind ? And then I would sit down and ponder 
over the various scenes and adventures in my book, endeavouring 
to ascertain how I came originally to devise them, and by dint 
of reflecting I remembered that to a single word in conversation, 
or some simple accident in a street, or on a road, I was indebted 
for some of the happiest portions of my work ; they were but tiny 
seeds, it is true, which in the soil of my imagination had subse- 
quently become stately trees, but I reflected that without them no 
stately trees would have been produced, and that, consequently, 
only a part in the merit of these compositions which charmed the 
world — for they did charm the world — was due to myself. Thus, 
a dead fly was in my phial, poisoning all the pleasure which I 
should otherwise have derived from the result of my brain sweat. 
‘ How hard ! ’ I would exclaim, looking up to the sky, « how hard 1 
I am like Virgil’s sheep, bearing fleeces not for themselves.’ But, 
not to tire you, it fared with my second work as it did with my 
first ; I flung it aside and, in order to forget it, I began a third, 
on which I am now occupied ; but the difficulty of writing 
it is immense, my extreme desire to be original sadly cramping 
the powers of my mind ; my fastidiousness being so great that I 
invariably reject whatever ideas I do not think to be legitimately 
my own. But there is one circumstance to which I cannot help 
alluding here, as it serves to show what miseries this love of 
originality must needs bring upon an author. I am constantly 
discovering that, however original I may wish to be, I am continu- 
ally producing the same things which other people say or write. 
Whenever, after producing something which gives me perfect 
satisfaction, and which has cost me perhaps days and nights of 
brooding, I chance to take up a book for the sake of a little 
relaxation, a book which I never saw before, I am sure to find in 
it something more or less resembling some part of what I have 
been just composing. You will easily conceive the distress which 
then comes over me; ’tis then that I am almost tempted to 
execrate the chance which, by discovering my latent powers, 
induced me to adopt a profession of such anxiety and misery. 

“ For some time past I have given up reading almost entirely, 
owing to the dread which I entertain of lighting upon something 
similar to what I myself have written. I scarcely ever transgress 
without having almost instant reason to repent. To-day, when I 
took up the newspaper, I saw in a speech of the Duke of Rhodo 
dendron, at an agricultural dinner, the very same ideas, and 
almost the same expressions which I had put into the mouth of 
an imaginary personage of mine, on a widely different occasion ; 


THE SEQUEL . 


349 


1825.] 


you saw how I dashed the newspaper down — you saw how I 
touched the floor; the touch was to baffle the evil chance, to 
prevent the critics detecting any similarity between the speech of 
the Duke of Rhododendron at the agricultural dinner, and the 
speech of my personage. My sensibility on the subject of my 
writings is so great, that sometimes a chance word is sufficient 
to unman me, I apply it to them in a superstitious sense ; for 
example, when you said some time ago that the dark hour was 
coming on, I applied it to my works — it appeared to bode them 
evil fortune ; you saw how I touched, it was to baffle the evil 
chance ; but I do not confine myself to touching when the fear of 
the evil chance is upon me. To baffle it I occasionally perform 
actions which must appear highly incomprehensible ; I have been 
known, when riding in company with other people, to leave the 
direct road, and make a long circuit by a miry lane to the place 
to which we were going. I have also been seen attempting to 
ride across a morass, where I had no business whatever, and in 
which my horse finally sank up to its saddle-girths, and was only 
extricated by the help of a multitude of hands. I have, of course, 
frequently been asked the reason for such conduct, to which I 
have invariably returned no answer, for I scorn duplicity ; where- 
upon people have looked mysteriously, and sometimes put their 
fingers to their foreheads. ‘ And yet it can’t be,’ I once heard an 
old gentleman say ; ‘don’t we know what he is capable of?’ and 
the old man was right ; I merely did these things to avoid the 
evil chance, impelled by the strange feeling within me ; and this 
evil chance is invariably connected with my writings, the only 
things at present which render life valuable to me. If I touch 
various objects, and ride into miry places, it is to baffle any 
mischance befalling me as an author, to prevent my books getting 
into disrepute ; in nine cases out of ten to prevent any expressions, 
thoughts or situations in any work which I am writing from re- 
sembling the thoughts, expressions and situations of other authors, 
for my great wish, as I told you before, is to be original. 

“ I have now related my history, and have revealed to you the 
secrets of my inmost bosom. I should certainly not have spoken 
so unreservedly as I have done, had I not discovered in you a 
kindred spirit. I have long wished for an opportunity of dis- 
coursing on the point which forms the peculiar feature of my 
history with a being who could understand me ; and truly it was 
a lucky chance which brought you to these parts ; you who seem to 
be acquainted with all things strange and singular, and who are 
as well acquainted with the subject of the magic touch as with all 
that relates to the star Jupiter, or the mysterious tree at Upsal.” 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


35 ^ 


Such was the story which my host related to me in the library, 
amidst the darkness, occasionally broken by flashes of lightning. 
Both of us remained silent for some time after it was concluded. 

“It is a singular story,” said I, at last, “though I confess that 
I was prepared for some part of it. Will you permit me to ask 
you a question?” 

“Certainly,” said my host. 

“ Did you never speak in public ? ” said I. 

“Never.” 

“ And when you made this speech of yours in the dining-room, 
commencing with Mr. Speaker, no one was present ? ” 

“ None in the world, I double-locked the door ; what do you 
mean ? ” 

“ An idea came into my head — dear me, how the rain is pour- 
ing — but, with respect to your present troubles and anxieties, 
would it not be wise, seeing that authorship causes you so much 
trouble and anxiety, to give it up altogether? ” 

“Were you an author yourself,” replied my host, “you would 
not talk in this manner ; once an author, ever an author — besides, 
what could I do ? return to my former state of vegetation ? no, 
much as I endure, I do not wish that ; besides, every now and 
then my reason tells me that these troubles and anxieties of mine 
are utterly without foundation ; that whatever I write is the legiti- 
mate growth of my own mind, and that it is the height of folly to 
afflict myself at any chance resemblance between my own thoughts 
and those of other writers, such resemblance being inevitable from 
the fact of our common human origin. In short ” 

“I understand you,” said I; “notwithstanding your troubles 
and anxieties you find life very tolerable ; has your originality ever 
been called in question ? ” 

“ On the contrary, every one declares that originality con- 
stitutes the most remarkable feature of my writings ; the man has 
some faults, they say, but want of originality is certainly not one 
of them. He is quite different from others ; a certain newspaper, 

it is true, the 1 I think, once insinuated that in a certain work 

of mine I had taken a hint or two from the writings of a couple of 
authors which it mentioned; it happened, however, that I had 
never even read one syllable of the writings of either, and of one 
of them had never even heard the name ; so much for the dis- 
crimination of the By-the-bye, what a rascally newspaper 

that is ! ” 

“ A very rascally newspaper,” said I. 

1 MS., “The Times”. 


CHAPTER LX VII. 


During the greater part of that night my slumbers were disturbed 
by strange dreams. Amongst other things, I fancied that I was 
my host; my head appeared to be teeming with wild thoughts 
and imaginations, out of which I was endeavouring to frame a 
book. And now the book was finished and given to the world, 
and the world shouted ; and all eyes were turned upon me, and I 
shrunk from the eyes of the world. And, when I got into retired 
places, I touched various objects in order to baffle the evil chance. 
In short, during the whole night, I was acting over the story which 
I had heard before I went to bed. 

At about eight o’clock I awoke. The storm had long since 
passed away, and the morning was bright and shining ; my couch 
was so soft and luxurious that I felt loth to quit it, so I lay some 
time, my eyes wandering about the magnificent room to which 
fortune had conducted me in so singular a manner ; at last I 
heaved a sigh ; I was thinking of my own homeless condition, and 
imagining where I should find myself on the following morning. 
Unwilling, however, to indulge in melancholy thoughts, I sprang 
out of bed and proceeded to dress myself, and, whilst dressing, I 
felt an irresistible inclination to touch the bed-post. 

I finished dressing and left the room, feeling compelled, how- 
ever, as I left it, to touch the lintel of the door. Is it possible, 
thought I, that from what I have lately heard the long-forgotten in- 
fluence should have possessed me again ? but I will not give way to 
it ; so I hurried down stairs, resisting as I went a certain inclination 
which I occasionally felt to touch the rail of the bannister. I was 
presently upon the gravel walk before the house : it was indeed a 
glorious morning. I stood for some time observing the golden 
fish disporting in the waters of the pond, and then strolled about 
amongst the noble trees of the park ; the beauty and freshness of 
the morning — for the air had been considerably cooled by the late 
storm — soon enabled me to cast away the gloomy ideas which had 
previously taken possession of my mind, and, after a stroll of about 
half an hour, I returned towards the house in high spirits. It is 


352 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


true that once I felt very much inclined to go and touch the leaves 
of a flowery shrub which I saw at some distance, and had even 
moved two or three paces towards it ; but, bethinking myself, I 
manfully resisted the temptation. “ Begone ! ” I exclaimed, “ ye 
sorceries, in which I formerly trusted — begone for ever vagaries 
which I had almost forgotten ; good luck is not to be obtained, 
or bad averted, by magic touches ; besides, two wizards in one 
parish would be too much, in all conscience.” 

I returned to the house, and entered the library ; breakfast 
was laid on the table, and my friend was standing before the 
portrait which I have already said hung above the mantelpiece ; so 
intently was he occupied in gazing at it that he did not hear me 
enter, nor was aware of my presence till I advanced close to him 
and spoke, when he turned round, and shook me by the hand. 

“What can possibly have induced you to hang that portrait 
up in your library ? it is a staring likeness, it is true, but it appears 
to me a wretched daub.” 

“ Daub as you call it,” said my friend, smiling, “ I would not 
part with it for the best piece of Raphael. For many a happy 
thought I am indebted to that picture — it is my principal source 
of inspiration ; when my imagination flags, as of course it occa- 
sionally does, I stare upon those features, and forthwith strange 
ideas of fun and drollery begin to flow into my mind ; these I 
round, amplify, or combine into goodly creations, and bring forth 
as I find an opportunity. It is true that I am occasionally tor- 
mented by the thought that, by doing this, I am committing 
plagiarism ; though in that case, all thoughts must be plagiarisms, 
all that we think being the result of what we hear, see or feel. 
What can I do? I must derive my thoughts from some source 
or other ; and, after all, it is better to plagiarise from the features 
of my landlord than from the works of Butler and Cervantes. 
My works, as you are aware, are of a serio-comic character. My 
neighbours are of opinion that I am a great reader, and so I am, 
but only of those features — my real library is that picture.” 

“ But how did you obtain it ? ” 

“Some years ago a travelling painter came into this neigh- 
bourhood, and my jolly host, at the request of his wife, consented 
to sit for his portrait ; she highly admired the picture, but she 
soon died, and then my fat friend, who is of an affectionate dis- 
position, said he could not bear the sight of it, as it put him in 
mind of his poor wife. I purchased it of him for five pounds — 
I would not take five thousand for it ; when you called that 
picture a daub, you did not see all the poetry of it.” 


1825.] 


THE REV. MR. PLATITUDE. 


353 


We sat down to breakfast ; my entertainer appeared to be in 
much better spirits than on the preceding day ; I did not observe 
him touch once ; ere breakfast was over a servant entered — “ The 
Reverend Mr. Platitude, sir,” said he. 

A shade of dissatisfaction came over the countenance of my 
host. “What does the silly pestilent fellow mean by coming 
here ? ” said he, half to himself ; “ let him come in,” said he to 
the servant. 

The servant went out, and in a moment reappeared, intro- 
ducing the Reverend Mr. Platitude. The Reverend Mr. Plati- 
tude, having what is vulgarly called a game leg, came shambling 
into the room ; he was about thirty years of age, and about five 
feet three inches high ; his face was of the colour of pepper, and 
nearly as rugged as a nutmeg grater ; his hair was black ; with his 
eyes he squinted, and grinned with his lips, which were very much 
apart, disclosing two very irregular rows of teeth ; he was dressed 
in the true Levitical fashion, in a suit of spotless black, and a 
neckerchief of spotless white. 

The Reverend Mr. Platitude advanced winking and grinning 
to my entertainer, who received him politely but with evident 
coldness ; nothing daunted, however, the Reverend Mr. Platitude 
took a seat by the table, and, being asked to take a cup of coffee, 
winked, grinned and consented. 

In company I am occasionally subject to fits of what is gener- 
ally called absence ; my mind takes flight and returns to former 
scenes, or presses forward into the future. One of these fits of 
absence came over me at this time — I looked at the Reverend 
Mr. Platitude for a moment, heard a word or two that proceeded 
from his mouth, and saying to myself, “ You are no man for me,” 
fell into a fit of musing — into the same train of thought as in the 
morning, no very pleasant one — I was thinking of the future. 

I continued in my reverie for some time, and probably should 
have continued longer, had I not been suddenly aroused by the 
voice of Mr. Platitude raised to a very high key. “ Yes, my dear 
sir,” said he, “ it is but too true ; I have it on good authority — a 
gone church — a lost church — a ruined church — a demolished 
church is the Church of England. Toleration to Dissenters ! 
oh, monstrous ! ” 

“ I suppose,” said my host, “ that the repeal of the Test Acts 
will be merely a precursor of the emancipation of the Papists? ” 

“ Of the Catholics,” said the Reverend Mr. Platitude. “ Ahem. 
There was a time, as I believe you are aware, my dear sir, when 
I was as much opposed to the emancipation of the Catholics as it 

23 


354 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


was possible for any one to be; but I was prejudiced, my dear 
sir, labouring under a cloud of most unfortunate prejudice; but 
I thank my Maker I am so no longer. I have travelled, as you 
are aware. It is only by travelling that one can rub off pre- 
judices ; I think you will agree with me there. I am speaking 
to. a traveller. I left behind all my prejudices in Italy. The 
Catholics are at least our fellow-Christians. I thank Heaven 
that I am no longer an enemy to Catholic emancipation.” 
“And yet you would not tolerate Dissenters?” 

“ Dissenters, my dear sir ; I hope you would not class such a 
set as the Dissenters with Catholics ? ” 

“Perhaps it would be unjust,” said my host, “though to 
which of the two parties is another thing ; but permit me to ask 
you a question : Does it not smack somewhat of paradox to talk 
of Catholics, whilst you admit there are Dissenters ? If there are 
Dissenters, how should there be Catholics ? ” 

“It is not my fault that there are Dissenters,” said the 
Reverend Mr. Platitude; “if I had my will I would neither 
admit there were any, nor permit any to be.” 

“ Of course you would admit there were such as long as they 
existed ; but how would you get rid of them ? ” 

“ I would have the Church exert its authority.” 

“ What do you mean by exerting its authority ? ” 

“ I would not have the Church bear the sword in vain.” 
“What, the sword of St. Peter? You remember what the 
founder of the religion which you profess said about the sword, 

‘He who striketh with it * I think those who have called 

themselves the Church have had enough of the sword. Two can 
play with the sword, Mr. Platitude. The Church of Rome tried 
the sword with the Lutherans : how did it fare with the Church 
of Rome? The Church of England tried the sword, Mr. 
Platitude, with the Puritans : how did it fare with Laud and 
Charles?” 

“ Oh, as for the Church of England,” said Mr. Platitude, “ I 
have little to say. Thank God I left all my Church of England 
prejudices in Italy. Had the Church of England known its true 
interests, it would long ago have sought a reconciliation with its 
illustrious mother. If the Church of England had not been in 
some degree a schismatic church, it would not have fared so ill 
at the time of which you are speaking; the rest of the Church 
would have come to its assistance. The Irish would have helped 
it, so would the French, so would the Portuguese. Disunion has 
always been the bane of the Church.” 


1825.] 


“NO MAN FOR ME! 


355 


Once more I fell into a reverie. My mind now reverted to 
the past ; methought I was in a small, comfortable room wain- 
scoted with oak ; I was seated on one side of a fireplace, close 
by a table on which were wine and fruit ; on the other side of 
the fire sat a man in a plain suit of brown, with the hair combed 
back from his somewhat high forehead; he had a pipe in his 
mouth, which for some time he smoked gravely and placidly, 
without saying a word ; at length, after drawing at the pipe for 
some time rather vigorously, he removed it from his mouth, and 
emitting an accumulated cloud of smoke, he exclaimed in a slow 
and measured tone : “ As I was telling you just now, my good 
chap, I have always been an enemy to humbug”. 

When I awoke from my reverie the Reverend Mr. Platitude 
was quitting the apartment. 

“ Who is that person? ” said I to my entertainer, as the door 
closed behind him. 

“Who is he?” said my host; “why, the Rev. Mr. Platitude.” 

“ Does he reside in this neighbourhood ? ” 

“ He holds a living about three miles from here ; his history, 
as far as I am acquainted with it, is as follows : His father was 
a respectable tanner in the neighbouring town, who, wishing to 
make his son a gentleman, sent him to college. Having never 
been at college myself, I cannot say whether he took the wisest 
course ; I believe it is more easy to unmake than to make a 
gentleman ; I have known many gentlemanly youths go to 
college, and return anything but what they went. Young Mr. 
Platitude did not go to college a gentleman, but neither did he 
return one ; he went to college an ass, and returned a prig ; to 
his original folly was superadded a vast quantity of conceit. He 
told his father that he had adopted high principles, and was 
determined to discountenance everything low and mean ; ad- 
vised him to eschew trade, and to purchase him a living. The 
old man retired from business, purchased his son a living, and 
shortly after died, leaving him what remained of his fortune. 
The first thing the Reverend Mr. Platitude did after his father’s 
decease, was to send his mother and sister into Wales to live 
upon a small annuity, assigning as a reason that he was averse 
to anything low and that they talked ungrammatically. Wishing 
to shine in the pulpit, he now preached high sermons, as he 
called them, interspersed with scraps of learning. His sermons 
did not, however, procure him much popularity ; on the contrary, 
his church soon became nearly deserted, the greater part of his 
flock going over to certain dissenting preachers, who had shortly 


356 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


before made their appearance in the neighbourhood. Mr. Plati- 
tude was filled with wrath, and abused Dissenters in most un- 
measured terms. Coming in contact with some of the preachers 
at a public meeting, he was rash enough to enter into argument 
with them. Poor Platitude ! he had better have been quiet, he 
appeared like a child, a very infant in their grasp ; he attempted 
to take shelter under his college learning, but found, to his 
dismay, that his opponents knew more Greek and Latin than 
himself. These illiterate boors, as he had supposed them, caught 
him at once in a false concord, and Mr. Platitude had to slink 
home overwhelmed with shame. To avenge himself he applied 
to the ecclesiastical court, but was told that the Dissenters could 
not be put down by the present ecclesiastical law. He found 
the Church of England, to use his own expression, a poor, 
powerless, restricted Church. He now thought to improve his 
consequence by marriage, and made up to a rich and beautiful 
young lady in the neighbourhood ; the damsel measured him from 
head to foot with a pair of very sharp eyes, dropped a curtsey, and 
refused him. Mr. Platitude, finding England a very stupid place, 
determined to travel ; he went to Italy ; how he passed his time 
there he knows best, to other people it is a matter of little 
importance. At the end of two years he returned with a real or 
assumed contempt for everything English, and especially for the 
Church to which he belongs, and out of which he is supported. 
He forthwith gave out that he had left behind him all his Church 
of England prejudices, and, as a proof thereof, spoke against 
sacerdotal wedlock and the toleration of schismatics. In an evil 
hour for myself he was introduced to me by a clergyman of my 
acquaintance, and from that time I have been pestered, as I was 
this morning, at least once a week. I seldom enter into any 
discussion with him, but fix my eyes on the portrait over the 
mantelpiece, and endeavour to conjure up some comic idea or 
situation, whilst he goes on talking tomfoolery by the hour about 
Church authority, schismatics, and the unlawfulness of sacerdotal 
wedlock ; occasionally he brings with him a strange kind of 
being, whose acquaintance he says he made in Italy. I believe 
he is some sharking priest, who has come over to proselytize and 
plunder. This being has some powers of conversation and some 
learning, but carries the countenance of an arch villain ; 
Platitude is evidently his tool." 

“ Of what religion are you ? ” said I to my host. 

“That of the Vicar of Wakefield — good, quiet, Church of 
England, which would live and let live, practises charity, and rails 


1825.] 


Good-Bye. 


357 


at no one ; where the priest is the husband of one wife, takes 
care of his family and his parish — such is the religion for me, 
though I confess I have hitherto thought too little of religious 
matters. When, however, I have completed this plaguy work on 
which I am engaged, I hope to be able to devote more attention 
to them.” 

After some further conversation, the subjects being, if I re- 
member right, college education, priggism, church authority, 
tomfoolery, and the like, I rose and said to my host, “ I must 
now leave you 

“ Whither are you going? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ Stay here, then — you shall be welcome as many days, 
months, and years as you please to stay.” 

“ Do you think I would hang upon another man ? No, not 
if he were Emperor of all the Chinas. I will now make my 
preparations, and then bid you farewell.” 

I retired to my apartment and collected the handful of things 
which I carried with me on my travels. 

“ I will walk a little way with you,” said my friend on my 
return. 

He walked with me to the park gate ; neither of us said any- 
thing by the way. When we had come upon the road, I said : 
“ Farewell now ; I will not permit you to give yourself any 
further trouble on my account. Receive my best thanks for your 
kindness ; before we part, however, I should wish to ask you a 
question. Do you think you shall ever grow tired of authorship ? ” 

“ I have my fears,” said my friend, advancing his hand to one 
of the iron bars of the gate. 

“Don’t touch,” said I, “it is a bad habit. I have but one 
word to add : should you ever grow tired of authorship follow 
your first idea of getting into Parliament ; you have words enough 
at command ; perhaps you want manner and method ; but, in 
that case, you must apply to a teacher, you must take lessons of 
a master of elocution.” . 

“ That would never do ! ” said my host ; “ I know myself too 
well to think of applying for assistance to any one. Were I to 
become a parliamentary orator, I should wish to be an original 
one, even if not above mediocrity. What pleasure should I take 
in any speech I might make, however original as to thought, pro- 
vided the gestures I employed and the very modulation of my 
voice were not my own ? Take lessons, indeed ! why, the fellow 
who taught me, the professor, might be standing in the gallery 


358 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


whilst I spoke ; and, at the best parts of my speech, might say to 
himself: ‘ That gesture is mine — that modulation is mine ’. I could 
not bear the thought of such a thing/’ 

“Farewell,” said I, “and may you prosper. I have nothing 
more to say.” 

I departed. At the distance of twenty yards I turned round 
suddenly ; my friend was just withdrawing his finger from the bar 
of the gate. 

“ He has been touching,” said I, as I proceeded on my way ; 
“ I wonder what was the evil chance he wished to baffle.” 


[End of Vol. II. , 1851.] 


J 


CHAPTER LXVIIl. 


After walking some time, I found myself on the great road, at 
the same spot where I had turned aside the day before with my 
new-made acquaintance, in the direction of his house. I now 
continued my journey as before, towards the north. The weather, 
though beautiful, was much cooler than it had been for some time 
past ; I walked at a great rate, with a springing and elastic step. 
In about two hours I came to where a kind of cottage stood a 
little way back from the road, with a huge oak before it, under 
the shade of which stood a little pony and cart, which seemed to 
contain various articles. I was going past, when I saw scrawled 
over the door of the cottage, “ Good beer sold here ” ; upon which, 
feeling myself all of a sudden very thirsty, I determined to go in 
and taste the beverage. 

I entered a well-sanded kitchen, and seated myself on a bench, 
on one side of a long white table ; the other side, which was nearest 
to the wall, was occupied by a party, or rather family, consisting of 
a grimy-looking man, somewhat under the middle size, dressed in 
faded velveteens, and wearing a leather apron — a rather pretty- 
looking woman, but sun-burnt, and meanly dressed, and two 
ragged children, a boy and girl, about four or five years old. 
The man sat with his eyes fixed upon the table, supporting his 
chin with both his hands; the woman, who was next to him, sat 
quite still, save that occasionally she turned a glance upon her 
husband with eyes that appeared to have been lately crying. The 
children had none of the vivacity so general at their age. A more 
disconsolate family I had never seen ; a mug, which, when filled, 
might contain half a pint, stood empty before them ; a very dis- 
consolate party indeed. 

“ House ! ” said I ; “ House ! ” and then as nobody appeared, 
I cried again as loud as I could, “House! do you hear me, 
House ! ” 

“ What’s your pleasure, young man? ” said an elderly woman, 
who now made her appearance from a side apartment. 

“ To taste your ale,” said I. 


360 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825- 


“How much?" said the woman, stretching out her hand 
towards the empty mug upon the table. 

“ The largest measure-full in your house," said I, putting back 
her hand gently. “ This is not the season for half-pint mugs." 

“As you will, young man,” said the landlady, and presently 
brought in an earthen pitcher which might contain about three 
pints, and which foamed and frothed withal. 

“ Will this pay for it? " said I, putting down sixpence. 

“ I have to return you a penny," said the landlady, putting her 
hand into her pocket. 

“ I want no change," said I, flourishing my hand with an air. 

“As you please, young gentleman," said the landlady, and 
then making a kind of curtsey, she again retired to the side 
apartment. 

“ Here is your health, sir," said I to the grimy-looking man, as 
I raised the pitcher to my lips. 

The tinker, for such I supposed him to be, without altering his 
posture, raised his eyes, looked at me for a moment, gave a slight 
nod, and then once more fixed his eyes upon the table. I took a 
draught of the ale, which I found excellent ; “ won’t you drink ? " 
said I, holding the pitcher to the tinker,. 

The man again lifted his eyes, looked at me, and then at the 
pitcher, and then at me again. I thought at one time that he was 
about to shake his head in sign of refusal, but no, he looked once 
more at the pitcher, and the temptation was too strong. Slowly 
removing his head from his arms, he took the pitcher, sighed, 
nodded, and drank a tolerable quantity, and then set the pitcher 
down before me upon the table. 

“ You had better mend your draught," said I to the tinker ; 
“it is a sad heart that never rejoices.” 

“That’s true,” said the tinker, and again raising the pitcher to 
his lips, he mended his draught as I had bidden him, drinking a 
larger quantity than before. 

“ Pass it to your wife,” said I. 

The poor woman took the pitcher from the man’s hand ; 
before, however, raising it to her lips, she looked at the children. 
True mother’s heart, thought I to myself, and taking the half-pint 
mug, I made her fill it, and then held it to the children, causing 
each to take a draught. The woman wiped her eyes with the 
corner of her gown before she raised the pitcher and drank to my 
health. 

In about five minutes none of the family looked half so dis- 
consolate as before, and the tinker and I were in deep discourse. 


i 82 5 .] 


THE EVICTED TINKER. 


361 


Oh, genial and gladdening is the power of good ale, the true 
and proper drink of Englishmen. He is not deserving of the 
name of Englishman who speaketh against ale, that is good ale, 
like that which has just made merry the hearts of this poor family ; 
and yet there are beings, calling themselves Englishmen, who say 
that it is a sin to drink a cup of ale, and who, on coming to this 
passage will be tempted to fling down the book and exclaim : 
“ The man is evidently a bad man, for behold, by his own con- 
fession, he is not only fond of ale himself, but is in the habit of 
tempting other people with it Alas ! alas ! what a number of 
silly individuals there are in this world ; I wonder what they would 
have had me do in this instance — given the afflicted family a cup 
of cold water ? go to ! They could have found water in the road, 
for there was a pellucid spring only a few yards distant from the 
house, as they were well aware — but they wanted not water ; what 
should I have given them ? meat and bread ? go to ! They were 
not hungry ; there was stifled sobbing in their bosoms, and the 
first mouthful of strong meat would have choked them. What 
should I have given them ? Money ! what right had I to insult 
them by offering them money ? Advice ! words, words, words ; 
friends, there is a time for everything ; there is a time for a cup 
of cold water ; there is a time for strong meat and bread ; there is 
a time for advice, and there is a time for ale ; and I have generally 
found that the time for advice is after a cup of ale — I do not say 
many cups ; the tongue then speaketh more smoothly, and the ear 
listeneth more benignantly ; but why do I attempt to reason with 
you ? do I not know you for conceited creatures, with one idea — 
and that a foolish one — a crotchet, for the sake of which ye w r ould 
sacrifice anything, religion if required — country ? There, fling down 
my book, I do not wish ye to walk any farther in my company, 
unless you cast your nonsense away, which ye will never do, for 
it is the breath of your nostrils ; fling down my book, it was not 
written to support a crotchet, for know one thing, my good people, 
I have invariably been an enemy to humbug. 

“ Well,” said the tinker, after we had discoursed some time, 
“ I little thought when I first saw you, that you were of my own 
trade.” 

Myself. — Nor am I, at least not exactly. There is not much 
difference, ’tis true, between a tinker and a smith. 

Tinker. — You are a whitesmith, then ? 

Myself. — Not I, I’d scorn to be anything so mean ; no, friend, 
black’s the colour ; I am a brother of the horseshoe. Success to 
the hammer and tongs. 


362 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


Tinker. — Well, I shouldn’t have thought you were a blacksmith 
by your hands. 

Myself. — -I have seen them, however, as black as yours. The 
truth is, I have not worked for many a day. 

Tinker. — Where did you serve first? 

Myself — In Ireland. 

Tinker. — That’s a good way off, isn’t it ? 

Myself. — Not very far ; over those mountains to the left, and 
the run of salt water that lies behind them, there’s Ireland. 

Tinker. — It’s a fine thing to be a scholar. 

Myself. — Not half so fine as to be a tinker. 

Tinker. — How you talk ! 

Myself. — Nothing but the truth ; what can be better than to 
be one’s own master? Now, a tinker is his own master, a scholar 
is not. Let us suppose the best of scholars, a schoolmaster, for 
example, for I suppose you will admit that no one can be higher 
in scholarship than a schoolmaster ; do you call his a pleasant 
life? I don’t; we should call him a school-slave, rather than a 
schoolmaster. Only conceive him in blessed weather like this, in 
his close school, teaching children to write in copy-books, “ Evil 
communication corrupts good manners,” or “You cannot touch 
pitch without defilement,” or to spell out of Abedariums, or to 
read out of Jack Smith, or Sandford and Merton. Only conceive 
him, I say, drudging in such guise from morning till night, with- 
out any rational enjoyment but to beat the children. Would you 
compare such a dog’s life as that with your own — the happiest 
under heaven — true Eden life, as the Germans would say, — 
pitching your tent under the pleasant hedge-row, listening to the 
song of the feathered tribes, collecting all the leaky kettles in the 
neighbourhood, soldering and joining, earning your honest bread 
by the wholesome sweat of your brow — making ten holes — hey, 
what’s this ? what’s the man crying for ? 

Suddenly the tinker had covered his face with his hands, and 
begun to sob and moan like a man in the deepest distress ; the 
breast of his wife was heaved with emotion ; even the children 
were agitated, the youngest began to roar. 

Myself. — What’s the matter with you ; what are you all crying 
about ? 

Tinker (uncovering his face). — Lord, why to hear you talk ; 
isn’t that enough to make anybody cry — even the poor babes? 
Yes, you said right, ’tis life in the garden of Eden— the tinker’s ; 
I see so now that I’m about to give it up. 

Myself. — Give it up ! you must not think of such a thing. 


1825.] 


THE DANGEROUS BEAT. 


363 


Tinker . — No, I can’t bear to think of it, and yet I must; 
what’s to be done? How hard to be frightened to death, to be 
driven off the roads. 

Myself . — Who has driven you off the roads ? 

Tinker . — Who ! the Flaming Tinman. 

Myself . — Who is he? 

Tinker . — The biggest rogue in England, and the cruellest, or 
he wouldn’t have served me as he has done — I’ll tell you all 
about it. I was born upon the roads, and so was my father 
before me, and my mother too ; and I worked with them as long 
as they lived, as a dutiful child, for I have nothing to reproach 
myself with on their account ; and when my father died I took 
up the business, and went his beat, and supported my mother for 
the little time she lived ; and when she died I married this young 
woman, who was not born upon the roads, but was a small 
tradesman’s daughter, at Glo’ster. She had a kindness for me, 
and, notwithstanding her friends were against the match, she 
married the poor tinker, and came to live with him upon the 
roads. Well, young man, for six or seven years I was the 
happiest fellow breathing, living just the life you described just 
now — respected by everybody in this beat ; when in an evil hour 
comes this Black Jack, this flaming tinman, into these parts, 
driven as they say out of Yorkshire — for no good, you may be 
sure. Now, there is no beat will support two tinkers, as you 
doubtless know ; mine was a good one, but it would not support 
the flying tinker and myself, though if it would have supported 
twenty it would have been all the same to the flying villain, who’ll 
brook no one but himself; so he presently finds me out, and 
offers to fight me for the beat. Now, being bred upon the roads, 
I can fight a little, that is with anything like my match, but I was 
not going to fight him, who happens to be twice my size, and so 
I told him ; whereupon he knocks me down, and would have 
done me further mischief had not some men been nigh and 
prevented him ; so he threatened to cut my throat, and went his 
way. Well, I did not like such usage at all, and was woundily 
frightened, and tried to keep as much out of his way as possible, 
going anywhere but where I thought I was likely to meet him ; 
and sure enough for several months I contrived to keep out of 
his way. At last somebody told me he was gone back to York- 
shire, whereupon I was glad at heart, and ventured to show 
myself, going here and there as I did before. Well, young man, 
it was yesterday that I and mine set ourselves down in a lane, 
about five miles from here, and lighted our fire, and had our 


3&4 


LA VEtfGRO. 


[1825. 


dinner, and after dinner I sat down to mend three kettles and a 
frying pan which the people in the neighbourhood had given me 
to mend — for, as I told you before, I have a good connection, 
owing to my honesty. Well, as I sat there hard at work, happy 
as the day’s long, and thinking of anything but what was to 
happen, who should come up but this Black Jack, this king of the 
tinkers, rattling along in his cart, with his wife, that they call Grey 
Moll, by his side — for the villain has got a wife, and a maid 
servant too ; the last I never saw, but they that has, says that she 
is as big as a house, and young, and well to look at, which can’t 
be all said of Moll, who, though she’s big enough in all conscience, 
is neither young nor handsome. Well, no sooner does he see me 
and mine, than giving the reins to Grey Moll, he springs out of 
his cart, and comes straight at me ; not a word did he say, but 
on he comes straight at me like a wild bull. I am a quiet man, 
young fellow, but I saw now that quietness would be of no use, 
so I sprang up upon my legs, and being bred upon the roads, and 
able to fight a little, I squared as he came running in upon me, 
and had a round or two with him. Lord bless you, young man, 
it was like a fly fighting with an elephant — one of those big beasts 
the show-folks carry about. I had not a chance with the fellow, 
he knocked me here, he knocked me there, knocked me into the 
hedge, and knocked me out again. I was at my last shifts, and 
my poor wife saw it. Now, my poor wife, though she is as gentle 
as a pigeon, has yet a spirit of her own, and though she wasn’t 
bred upon the roads, can scratch a little, so when she saw me at 
my last shifts, she flew at the villain — she couldn’t bear to see her 
partner murdered — and she scratched the villain’s face. Lord 
bless you, young man, she had better have been quiet : Grey 
Moll no sooner saw what she was about, than springing out of the 
cart, where she had sat all along perfectly quiet, save a little 
whooping and screeching to encourage her blade — Grey Moll, I 
say (my flesh creeps when I think of it — for I am a kind husband, 
and love my poor wife) 

Myself . — Take another draught of the ale ; you look frightened, 
and it will do you good. Stout liquor makes stout heart, as the 
man says in the play. 

Tinker. — That’s true, young man ; here’s to you — where was 
I? Grey Moll no sooner saw what my wife was about, than 
springing out of the cart, she flew at my poor wife, clawed off her 
bonnet in a moment, and seized hold of her hair. Lord bless 
you, young man, my poor wife, in the hands of Grey Moll, was 
nothing better than a pigeon in the claws of a buzzard hawk, or I 


1825.] 


BOSVILLE. 


365 


in the hands of the Flaming Tinman, which when I saw, my heart 
was fit to burst, and I determined to give up everything — every- 
thing to save my poor wife out of Grey Moll’s claws. “ Hold ! ” 
I shouted. “ Hold, both of you — Jack, Moll. Hold, both of 
you, for God’s sake, and I’ll do what you will : give up trade and 
business, connection, bread, and everything, never more travel the 
roads, and go down on my knees to you in the bargain.” Well, 
this had some effect : Moll let go my wife, and the Blazing Tinman 
stopped for a moment ; it was only for a moment, however, that 
he left off — all of a sudden he hit me a blow which sent me against 
a tree ; and what did the villian then ? why the flying villain seized 
me by the throat, and almost throttled me, roaring — what do you 
think, young man, that the flaming villain roared out ? 

Myself. — I really don’t know — something horrible, I suppose 

Tinker . — Horrible, indeed ; you may well say horrible, young 
man ; neither more nor less than the Bible — “ a Bible, a Bible ! ” 
roared the Blazing Tinman ; and he pressed my throat so hard 
against the tree that my senses began to dwaul away — a Bible, a 
Bible, still ringing in my ears. Now, young man, my poor wife is 
a Christian woman, and, though she travels the roads, carries a 
Bible with her at the bottom of her sack, with which sometimes 
she teaches the children to read — it was the only thing she brought 
with her from the place of her kith and kin, save her own body 
and the clothes on her back ; so my poor wife, half-distracted, 
runs to her sack, pulls out the Bible, and puts it into the hand of 
the Blazing Tinman, who then thrusts the end of it into my mouth 
with such fury that it made my lips bleed, and broke short one 
of my teeth which happened to be decayed. “ Swear,” said 
he, “ swear you mumping villain, take your Bible oath that you 
will quit and give up the beat altogether, or I’ll ” — and then the 
hard-hearted villain made me swear by the Bible, and my own 
damnation, half-throttled as I was — to — to — I can’t go on 

Myself. — Take another draught — stout liquor 

Tinker . — I can’t, young man, my heart’s too full, and what’s 
more, the pitcher is empty. 

Myself— And so he swore you, I suppose, on the Bible, to 
quit the roads ? 

Tinker. — You are right, he did so, the gypsy villain. 

Myself. — Gypsy ! Is he a gypsy ? 

Tinker. — Not exactly ; what they call a half and half. His 
father was a gypsy, and his mother, like mine, one who walked 
the roads. 

Myself. — Is he of the Smiths — the Petulengres ? 


3 66 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


Tinker. — I say, young man, you know a thing or two ; one 
would think, to hear you talk, you had been bred upon the roads. 
I thought none but those bred upon the roads knew anything of 
that name — Petulengres ! No, not he, he fights the Petulengres 
whenever he meets them ; he likes nobody but himself, and wants 

to be king of the roads. I believe he is a Boss, or a at any 

rate he’s a bad one, as I know to my cost. 

Myself. — And what are you going to do ? 

Tinker. — Do ! you may well ask that ; I don’t know what to 
do. My poor wife and I have been talking of that all the morn- 
ing, over that half-pint mug of beer ; we can’t determine on what’s 
to be done. All we know is, that we must quit the roads. The 
villain swore that the next time he saw us on the roads he’d cut 
all our throats, and seize our horse and bit of a cart that are now 
standing out there under the tree. 

Myself. — And what do you mean to do with your horse and 
cart ? 

Tinker. — Another question ! What shall we do with our cart 
and pony ? they are of no use to us now. Stay on the roads I 
will not, both for my oath’s sake and my own. If we had a trifle 
of money, we were thinking of going to Bristol, where I might get 
up a little business, but we have none ; our last three farthings we 
spent about the mug of beer. 

Myself. — But why don’t you sell your horse and cart ? 

Tinker. — Sell them? And who would buy them, unless some 
one who wished to set up in my line ; but there’s no beat, and 
what’s the use of the horse and cart and the few tools without the 
beat ? 

Myself. — I’m half-inclined to buy your cart and pony, and 
your beat too. 

Tinker. — You ! How came you to think of such a thing ? 

Myself. — Why, like yourself, I hardly know what to do. I 
want a home and work. As for a home, I suppose I can contrive 
to make a home out of your tent and cart ; and as for work, I 
must learn to be a tinker, it would not be hard for one of my 
trade to learn to tinker ; what better can I do ? Would you have 
me go to Chester and work there now ? I don’t like the thoughts 
of it. If I go to Chester and work there, I can’t be my own man ; 
I must work under a master, and perhaps he and I should quarrel, 
and when I quarrel I am apt to hit folks, and those that hit folks 
are sometimes sent to prison ; I don’t like the thought either of 
going to Chester or to Chester prison. What do you think I 
could earn at Chester ? 


i 825-] 


THE PURCHASE. 


367 


Tinker. — A matter of eleven shillings a week, if anybody would 
employ you, which I don’t think they would with those hands of 
yours. But whether they would or not, if you are of a quarrel- 
some nature, you must not go to Chester ; you would be in the 
castle in no time. I don’t know how to advise you. As for selling 
you my stock, I’d see you farther first, for your own sake. 

Myself. — Why ? 

Tinker. — Why ! you would get your head knocked off. Sup- 
pose you were to meet him ? 

Myself. — Pooh, don’t be afraid on my account ; if I were to 
meet him I could easily manage him one way or other. I know 
all kinds of strange words and names, and, as I told you before, I 
sometimes hit people when they put me out. 

Here the tinker’s wife, who for some minutes past had been 
listening attentively to our discourse, interposed, saying, in a low, 
soft tone : “ I really don’t see, John, why you shouldn’t sell the 
young man the things, seeing that he wishes for them, and is so 
confident ; you have told him plainly how matters stand, and if 
anything ill should befall him, people couldn’t lay the blame on 
you ; but I don’t think any ill will befall him, and who knows but 
God has sent him to our assistance in time of need.” 

“ I’ll hear of no such thing,” said the tinker ; “ I have drunk 
at the young man’s expense, and though he says he’s quarrelsome, 
I would not wish to sit in pleasanter company. A pretty fellow I 
should be, now, if I were to let him follow his own will. If he 
once sets up on my beat, he’s a lost man, his ribs will be stove in, 
and his head knocked off his shoulders. There, you are crying, 
but you shan’t have your will, though ; I won’t be the young 

man’s destruction If, indeed, I thought he could manage the 

tinker — but he never can ; he says he can hit, but it’s no use 
hitting the tinker ; — crying still ! you are enough to drive one mad. 
I say, young man, I believe you understand a thing or two; just 
now you were talking of knowing hard words and names — I don’t 
wish to send you to your mischief — you say you know hard words 
and names, let us see. Only on one condition I’ll sell you the 
pony and things ; as for the beat it’s gone, isn’t mine— sworn away 
by my own mouth. Tell me what’s my name ; if you can’t, may 
I ” 

Myself. — Don’t swear, it’s a bad habit, neither pleasant nor 
profitable. Your name is Slingsby — Jack Slingsby. There, don’t 
stare, there’s nothing in my telling you your name : I’ve been in 
these parts before, at least not very far from here. Ten years 
ago, when I was little more than a child, I was about twenty miles 


368 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


from here in a post-chaise at the door of an inn, and as I looked 
from the window of the chaise, I saw you standing by a gutter, 
with a big tin ladle in your hand, and somebody called you Jack 
Slingsby. I never forget anything I hear or see ; I can’t, I wish 
I could. So there’s nothing strange in my knowing your name ; 
indeed, there’s nothing strange in anything, provided you examine 
it to the bottom. Now, what am I to give you for the things ? 

I paid Slingsby five pounds ten shillings for his stock in trade, 
cart, and pony — purchased sundry provisions of the landlady, also 
a wagoner’s frock, which had belonged to a certain son of hers, 
deceased, gave my little animal a feed of corn, and prepared to 
depart. 

“ God bless you, young man,” said Slingsby, shaking me by 
the hand, “ you are the best friend I’ve had for many a day : I 
have but one thing to tell you : “ Don’t cross that fellow’s path if 
you can help it; and stay — should the pony refuse to go, just 
touch him so, and he’ll fly like the wind.” 


CHAPTER LXIX. 


It was two or three hours past noon when I took my departure 
from the place of the last adventure, walking by the side of my 
little cart ; the pony, invigorated by the corn, to which he was 
probably not much accustomed, proceeded right gallantly ; so 
far from having to hasten him forward by the particular applica- 
tion which the tinker had pointed out to me, I had rather to 
repress his eagerness, being; though an excellent pedestrian, not 
unfrequently left behind. The country through which I passed was 
beautiful and interesting, but solitary: few habitations appeared. 
As it was quite a matter of indifference to me in what direction I 
went, the whole world being before me, I allowed the pony to 
decide upon the matter ; it was not long before he left the high 
road, being probably no friend to public places. I followed him 
I knew not whither, but, from subsequent observation, have 
reason to suppose that our course was in a north-west direction. 
At length night came upon us, and a cold wind sprang up, which 
was succeeded by a drizzling rain. 

I had originally intended to pass the night in the cart, or to 
pitch my little tent on some convenient spot by the road’s side ; 
but, owing to the alteration in the weather, I thought that it 
would be advisable to take up my quarters in any hedge alehouse 
at which I might arrive. To tell the truth, I was not very sorry 
to have an excuse to pass the night once more beneath a roof. I 
had determined to live quite independent, but I had never before 
passed a night by myself abroad, and felt a little apprehensive at 
the idea; I hoped, however, on the morrow, to be a little more 
prepared for the step, so I determined for one night — only for 
one night longer — to sleep like a Christian ; but human determina- 
tions are not always put into effect, such a thing as opportunity 
is frequently wanting, such was the case here. I went on for a 
considerable time, in expectation of coming to some rustic hostelry, 
but nothing of the kind presented itself to my eyes ; the country 
in which I now was seemed almost uninhabited, not a house of 
any kind was to be seen — at least I saw none — though it is true 

(369) 24 


370 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


houses might be near without my seeing them, owing to the 
darkness of the night, for neither moon nor star was abroad. I 
heard, occasionally, the bark of dogs ; but the sound appeared to 
come from an immense distance. The rain still fell, and the 
ground beneath my feet was wet and miry; in short, it was a 
night in which even a tramper by profession would feel more 
comfortable in being housed than abroad. I followed in the rear 
of the cart, the pony still proceeding at a sturdy pace, till 
methought I heard other hoofs than those of my own nag ; I 
listened for a moment, and distinctly heard the sound of hoofs 
approaching at a great rate, and evidently from the quarter 
towards which I and my little caravan were moving. We were in 
a dark lane — so dark that it was impossible for me to see my own 
hand. Apprehensive that some accident might occur, I ran 
forward, and, seizing the pony by the bridle, drew him as near as 
I could to the hedge. On came the hoofs — trot, trot, trot ; and 
evidently more than those of one horse; their speed as they 
advanced appeared to slacken — it was only, however, for a 
moment. I heard a voice cry, “ Push on, this is a desperate 
robbing place, never mind the dark ” ; and the hoofs came on 
quicker than before. “Stop!” said I, at the top of my voice; 

“ stop ! or ” Before I could finish what I was about to say 

there was a stumble, a heavy fall, a cry, and a groan, and putting 
out my foot I felt what I conjectured to be the head of a horse 
stretched upon the road. “Lord have mercy upon us! what’s 
the matter ? ” exclaimed a voice. “ Spare my life,” cried another 
voice, apparently from the ground ; “ only spare my life, and take 
all I have.” “Where are you, Master Wise?” cried the other 
voice. “ Help ! here, Master Bat,” cried the voice from the 
ground, “help me up or I shall be murdered.” “Why, what’s 
the matter?” said Bat. “Some one has knocked me down, 
and is robbing me,” said the voice from the ground. “ Help ! 
murder ! ” cried Bat ; and, regardless of the entreaties of the 
man on the ground that he would stay and help him up, he urged 
his horse forward and galloped away as fast as he could. I 
remained for some time quiet, listening to various groans and 
exclamations uttered by the person on the ground ; at length I 
said, ‘‘Holloa! are you hurt?” “Spare my life, and take all I 
have ! ” said the voice from the ground. “ Have they not done 
robbing you yet?” said I; “when they have finished let me 
know, and I will come and help you.” “Who is that?” said 
the voice; “pray come and help me, and do me no mischief.” 
“You were saying that some one was robbing you,” said I; 


1825.] 


MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER. 


37i 


“don’t think I shall come till he is gone away.” “Then you 
ben’t he?” said the voice. “Ar’n’t you robbed?” said I. 
“ Can’t say I be,” said the voice ; “ not yet at any rate ; but who 
are you? I don’t know you.” “ A traveller whom you and your 
partner were going to run over in this dark lane; you almost 
frightened me out of my senses.” “Frightened!” said the 
voice, in a louder tone ; “ frightened ! oh ! ” and thereupon I 
heard somebody getting upon his legs. This accomplished, the 
individual proceeded to attend to his horse, and with a little diffi- 
culty raised him upon his legs also. “Ar’n’t you hurt?” said I. 
“Hurt!” said the voice; “not I; don’t think it, whatever the 
horse may be. I tell you what, my fellow, I thought you were a 

robber, and now I find you are not ; I have a good mind ” 

“ To do what? ” “ To serve you out ; ar’n’t you ashamed ?” 

“At what?” said I; “not to have robbed you? Shall I set 
about it now?” “ Ha, ha!” said the man, dropping the bully- 
ing tone which he had assumed ; “ you are joking — robbing ! 
who talks of robbing ? I wonder how my horse’s knees are ; not 
much hurt, I think — only mired.” The man, whoever he was, 
then got upon his horse ; and, after moving him about a little, 
said, “Good-night, friend; where are you?” “Here I am,” 
said I, “just behind you.” “You are, are you? Take that.” 
I know not what he did, but probably pricking his horse with the 
spur the animal kicked out violently ; one of his heels struck me 
on the shoulder, but luckily missed my face ; I fell back with the 
violence of the blow, whilst the fellow scampered off at a great 
rate. Stopping at some distance, he loaded me with abuse, and 
then, continuing his way at a rapid trot, I heard no more of him. 

“What a difference!” said I, getting up; “last night I was 
feted in the hall of a rich genius, and to-night I am knocked down 
and mired in a dark lane by the heel of Master Wise’s horse — I 
wonder who gave him that name ? And yet he was wise enough 
to wreak his revenge upon me, and I was not wise enough to keep 
out of his way. Well, I am not much hurt, so it is of little 
consequence.” 

I now bethought me that, as I had a carriage of my own, I 
might as well make use of it ; I therefore got into the cart, and, 
taking the reins in my hand, gave an encouraging cry to the pony, 
whereupon the sturdy little animal started again at as brisk a pace 
as if he had not already come many a long mile. I lay half- 
reclining in the cart, holding the reins lazily, and allowing the 
animal to go just where he pleased, often wondering where he 
would conduct me. At length I felt drowsy, and my head sank 


372 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


upon my breast ; I soon aroused myself, but it was only to doze 
again ; this occurred several times. Opening my eyes after a doze 
somewhat longer than the others, I found that the drizzling rain 
had ceased, a corner of the moon was apparent in the heavens, 
casting a faint light ; I looked around for a moment or two, but 
my eyes and brain were heavy with slumber, and I could scarcely 
distinguish where we were. I had a kind of dim consciousness 
that we were traversing an uninclosed country — perhaps a heath ; 
I thought, however, that I saw certain large black objects looming 
in the distance, which I had a confused idea might be woods or 
plantations ; the pony still moved at his usual pace. I did not 
find the jolting of the cart at all disagreeable ; on the contrary, it 
had quite a somniferous effect upon me. Again my eyes closed ; 
I opened them once more, but with less perception in them than 
before, looked forward, and, muttering something about woodlands, 
I placed myself in an easier posture than I had hitherto done, and 
fairly fell asleep. 

How long I continued in that state I am unable to say, but I 
believe for a considerable time ; I was suddenly awakened by the 
ceasing of the jolting to which I had become accustomed, and of 
which I was * perfectly sensible in my sleep. I started up and 
looked around me, the moon was still shining, and the face of 
the heaven was studded with stars ; I found myself amidst a maze 
of bushes of various kinds, but principally hazel and holly, through 
which was a path or driftway with grass growing on either side, 
upon which the pony was already diligently browsing. I con- 
jectured that this place had been one of the haunts of his former 
master, and, on dismounting and looking about, was strengthened 
in that opinion by finding a spot under an ash tree which, from 
its burnt and blackened appearance, seemed to have been fre- 
quently used as a fireplace. I will take up my quarters here, 
thought I ; it is an excellent spot for me to commence my new 
profession in ; I was quite right to trust myself to the guidance of 
the pony. Unharnessing the animal without delay, I permitted 
him to browse at free will on the grass, convinced that he would 
not wander far from a place to which he was so much attached ; 
I then pitched the little tent close beside the ash tree to which 
I have alluded, and conveyed two or three articles into it, and 
instantly felt that I had commenced housekeeping for the first 
time in my life. Housekeeping, however, without a fire is a very 
sorry affair, something like the housekeeping of children in their 
toy houses ; of this I was the more sensible from feeling very cold 
and shivering, owing to my late exposure to the rain, and sleeping 


1825.] 


HOUSEKEEPING. 


373 


in the night air. Collecting, therefore, all the dry sticks and furze 
I could find, I placed them upon the fireplace, adding certain 
chips and a billet which I found in the cart, it having apparently 
been the habit of Slingsby to carry with him a small store of fuel. 
Having then struck a spark in a tinder-box and lighted a match, 
I set fire to the combustible heap, and was not slow in raising a 
cheerful blaze ; I then drew my cart near the fire, and, seating 
myself on one of the shafts, hung over the warmth with feelings 
of intense pleasure and satisfaction. Having continued in this 
posture for a considerable time, I turned my eyes to the heaven 
in the direction of a particular star ; I, however, could not find 
the star, nor indeed many of the starry train, the greater number 
having fled, from which circumstance, and from the appearance of 
the sky, I concluded that morning was nigh. About this time I 
again began to feel drowsy; I therefore arose, and having prepared 
for myself a kind of couch in the tent, I flung myself upon it and 
went to sleep. 

I will not say that I was awakened in the morning by the 
carolling of birds, as I perhaps might if I were writing a novel ; I 
awoke because, to use vulgar language, I had slept my sleep out, 
not because the birds were carolling around me in numbers, as 
they had probably been for hours without my hearing them. I 
got up and left my tent ; the morning was yet more bright than 
that of the preceding day. Impelled by curiosity, I walked about, 
endeavouring to ascertain to what place chance, or rather the 
pony, had brought me ; following the driftway for some time, 
amidst bushes and stunted trees, I came to a grove of dark pines, 
through which it appeared to lead ; I tracked it a few hundred 
yards, but seeing nothing but trees, and the way being wet and 
sloughy, owing to the recent rain, I returned on my steps, and, 
pursuing the path in another direction, came to a sandy road 
leading over a common, doubtless the one I had traversed the 
preceding night. My curiosity satisfied, I returned to my little 
encampment, and on the way beheld a small footpath on the left 
winding through the bushes, which had before escaped my obser- 
vation. Having reached my tent and cart, I breakfasted on some 
of the provisions which I had procured the day before, and then 
proceeded to take a regular account of the stock formerly possessed 
by Slingsby the tinker, but now become my own by right of lawful 
purchase. 

Besides the pony, the cart, and the tent, I found I was pos- 
sessed of a mattress stuffed with straw on which to lie, and a 
blanket to cover me, the last quite clean and nearly new ; then 


374 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


there was a frying-pan and a kettle, the first for cooking any food 
which required cooking, and the second for heating any water 
which I might wish to heat. I likewise found an earthen teapot 
and two or three cups ; of the first I should rather say I found 
the remains, it being broken in three parts, no doubt since it came 
into my possession, which would have precluded the possibility of 
my asking anybody to tea for the present, should anybody visit 
me, even supposing I had tea and sugar, which was not the case. 
I then overhauled what might more strictly be called the stock in 
trade ; this consisted of various tools, an iron ladle, a chafing pan 
and small bellows, sundry pans and kettles, the latter being of tin, 
with the exception of one which was of copper, all in a state of 
considerable dilapidation — if I may use the term ; of these first 
Slingsby had spoken in particular, advising me to mend them as 
soon as possible, and to endeavour to sell them, in order that I 
might have the satisfaction of receiving some return upon the 
outlay which I had made. There was likewise a small quantity 
of block tin, sheet tin, and solder. “ This Slingsby,” said I, “ is 
certainly a very honest man, he has sold me more than my 
money’s worth ; I believe, however, there is something more in 
the cart.” Thereupon I rumaged the farther end of the cart, and, 
amidst a quantity of straw, I found a small anvil and bellows of 
that kind which are used in forges, and two hammers such as 
smiths use, one great, and the other small. 

The sight of these last articles caused me no little surprise, 
as no word which had escaped from the mouth of Slingsby had 
given me reason to suppose that he had ever followed the occu- 
pation of a smith ; yet, if he had not, how did he come by them ? 
I sat down upon the shaft, and pondered the question deliberately 
in my mind ; at length I concluded that he had come by them 
by one of those numerous casualties which occur upon the roads, 
of which I, being a young hand upon the roads, must have a very 
imperfect conception ; honestly, of course — for I scouted the idea 
that Slingsby would have stolen this blacksmith’s gear — for I had 
the highest opinion of his honesty, which opinion I still retain at 
the present day, which is upwards of twenty years from the time 
of which I am speaking, during the whole of which period I have 
neither seen the poor fellow, nor received any intelligence of him. 


CHAPTER LXX. 


I passed the greater part of the day in endeavouring to teach 
myself the mysteries of my new profession. I cannot say that 
I was very successful, but the time passed agreeably, and was 
therefore not ill spent. Towards evening I flung my work aside, 
took some refreshment, and afterwards a walk. 

This time I turned up the small footpath, of which I have 
already spoken. It led in a zigzag manner through thickets of 
hazel, elder and sweet briar ; after following its windings for 
somewhat better than a furlong, I heard a gentle sound of water, 
and presently came to a small rill, which ran directly across the 
path. I was rejoiced at the sight, for I had already experienced 
the want of water, which I yet knew must be nigh at hand, as 
I was in a place to all appearance occasionally frequented by 
wandering people, who I was aware never take up their quarters 
in places where water is difficult to be obtained. Forthwith I 
stretched myself on the ground, and took a long and delicious 
draught of the crystal stream, and then, seating myself in a bush, 
I continued for some time gazing on the water as it purled tink- 
ling away in its channel through an opening in the hazels, and 
should have probably continued much longer had not the thought 
that I had left my property unprotected compelled me to rise and 
return to my encampment. 

Night came on, and a beautiful night it was ; up rose the 
moon, and innumerable stars decked the firmament of heaven. 
I sat on the shaft, my eyes turned upwards. I had found it : 
there it was twinkling millions of miles above me, mightiest star 
of the system to which we belong : of all stars, the one which 
has the most interest for me — the star Jupiter. 

Why have I always taken an interest in thee, O Jupiter? I 
know nothing about thee, save what every child knows, that thou 
art a big star, whose only light is derived from moons. And is 
not that knowledge enough to make me feel an interest in thee ? 
Ay, truly, I never look at thee without wondering what is going 
on in thee ; what is life in Jupiter? That there is life in Jupiter 


376 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


who can doubt ? There is life in our own little star, therefore 
there must be life in Jupiter, which is not a little star. But how 
different must life be in Jupiter from what it is in our own little 
star ! Life here is life beneath the dear sun — life in Jupiter 
is life beneath moons — four moons — no single moon is able to 
illumine that vast bulk. All know what life is in our own little 
star ; it is anything but a routine of happiness here, where the 
dear sun rises to us every day : then how sad and moping must 
life be in mighty Jupiter, on which no sun ever shines, and which 
is never lighted save by pale moonbeams ! The thought that 
there is more sadness and melancholy in Jupiter than in this 
world of ours, where, alas ! there is but too much, has always 
made me take a melancholy interest in that huge, distant star. 

Two or three days passed by in much the same manner as the 
first. During the morning I worked upon my kettles, and em- 
ployed the remaining part of the day as I best could. The whole 
of this time I only saw two individuals, rustics, who passed by 
my encampment without vouchsafing me a glance ; they pro- 
bably considered themselves my superiors, as perhaps they were. 

One very brilliant morning, as I sat at work in very good 
spirits, for by this time I had actually mended in a very creditable 
way, as I imagined, two kettles and a frying-pan, I heard a voice 
which seemed to proceed from the path leading to the rivulet ; 
at first it sounded from a considerable distance, but drew nearer 
by degrees. I soon remarked that the tones were exceedingly 
sharp and shrill, with yet something of childhood in them. Once 
or twice I distinguished certain words in the song which the voice 
was singing ; the words were — but no, I thought again I was 
probably mistaken — and then the voice ceased for a time ; pre- 
sently I heard it again, close to the entrance of the footpath ; in 
another moment I heard it in the lane or glade in which stood 
my tent, where it abruptly stopped, but not before I had heard 
the very words which I at first thought I had distinguished. 

I turned my head ; at the entrance of the footpath, which 
might be about thirty yards from the place where I was sitting, 
I perceived the figure of a young girl ; her face was turned 
towards me, and she appeared to be scanning me and my en- 
campment ; after a little time she looked in the other direction, 
only for a moment, however ; probably observing nothing in 
that quarter, she again looked towards me, and almost immedi- 
ately stepped forward; and, as she advanced, sang the song 
which I had heard in the wood, the first words of which were 
those which I have already alluded to : — 


1825.] 


A VISIT. 


377 


The Rommany chi 
And the Rommany chal, 

Shall jaw tasaulor 
To drab the bawlor, 

And dook the gry 
Of the farming rye. 

A very pretty song, thought I, falling again hard to work upon 
my kettle ; a very pretty song, which bodes the farmers much good. 
Let them look to their cattle, 

“ All alone here, brother ? ” said a voice close by me, in sharp 
but not disagreeable tones. 

I made no answer, but continued my work, click, click, with 
the gravity which became one of my profession. I allowed at 
least half a minute to elapse before I even lifted up my eyes. 

A girl of about thirteen was standing before me ; her features 
were very pretty, but with a peculiar expression ; her complexion 
was a clear olive, and her jet black hair hung back upon her 
shoulders. She was rather scantily dressed, and her arms and 
feet were bare ; round her neck, however, was a handsome string 
of corals, with ornaments of gold : in her hand she held a bulrush. 

“ All alone here, brother ? ” said the girl, as I looked up ; “ all 
alone here, in the lane ; where are your wife and children ? ” 

“Why do you call me brother ? ” said I ; “ I am no brother of 
yours. Do you take me for one of your people ? I am no 
gypsy ; not I, indeed ! ” 

“ Don’t be afraid, brother, you are no Roman — Roman in- 
deed, you are not handsome enough to be a Roman ; not black 
enough, tinker though you be. If I called you brother, it was 
because I didn’t know what else to call you. Marry, come up, 
brother, I should be sorry to have you for a brother.” 

“Then you don’t like me?” 

“Neither like you, nor dislike you, brother; what will you 
have for that kekaubi ? ” 

“ What’s the use of talking to me in that unchristian way ; 
what do you mean, young gentlewoman?” 

“Lord, brother, what a fool you are; every tinker knows 
what a kekaubi is. I was asking you what you would have for 
that kettle.” 

“ Three-and-sixpence, young gentlewoman; isn’t it well 
mended ? ” 

“ Well mended ! I could have done it better myself ; three- 
and-sixpence ! it’s only fit to be played at football with.” 

“ I will take no less for it, young gentlewoman ; it has caused 
me a world of trouble.” 


378 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“ I never saw a worse mended kettle. I say, brother, your 
hair is white.” 

“ ’Tis nature ; your hair is black ; nature, nothing but nature.” 
“Iam young, brother ; my hair is black — that’s nature : you 
are young, brother; your hair is white — that’s not nature.” 

“ I can’t help it if it be not, but it is nature after all ; did you 
never see grey hair on the young ? ” 

“ Never ! I have heard it is true of a grey lad, and a bad one 
he was. Oh, so bad.” 

“ Sit down on the grass, and tell me all about it, sister; do to 
oblige me, pretty sister.” 

“ Hey, brother, you don’t speak as you did — you don’t speak 
like a gorgio, you speak like one of us, you call me sister.” 

“ As you call me brother ; I am not an uncivil person after 
all, sister.” 

“ I say, brother, tell me one thing, and look me in the face — 
there — do you speak Rommany ? ” 

“ Rommany ! Rommany ! what is Rommany? ” 

“ What is Rommany ? our language, to be sure ; tell me, 
brother, only one thing, you don’t speak Rommany?” 

“ You say it.” 

“ I don’t say it, I wish to know. Do you speak Rommany ? ” 
“ Do you mean thieves’ slang — cant? no, I don’t speak cant, 
I don’t like it, I only know a few words ; they call a sixpence a 
tanner, don’t they?” 

“ I don’t know,” said the girl, sitting down on the ground, 
“ I was almost thinking — well, never mind, you don’t know 
Rommany. I say, brother, I think I should like to have the 
kekaubi.” 

“ I thought you said it was badly mended? ” 

“Yes, yes, brother, but ” 

“I thought you said it was only fit to be played at football 
with ? ” 

“Yes, yes, brother, but ” 

“ What will you give for it ? ” 

“ Brother, I am the poor person’s child, I will give you six- 
pence for the kekaubi.” 

“ Poor person’s child ; how came you by that necklace? ” 

“ Be civil, brother ; am I to have the kekaubi ? ” 

“ Not for sixpence ; isn’t the kettle nicely mended ? ” 

“I never saw a nicer mended kettle, brother; am I to have 
the kekaubi, brother?” 

“ You like me then ? ” 


1825.] 


THE IDENTIFICATION. 


379 


“ I don’t dislike you — I dislike no one; there’s only one, and 
him I don’t dislike, him I hate.” 

“ Who is he? ” 

“ I scarcely know, I never saw him, hut ’tis no affair of yours, 
you don’t speak Rommany ; you will let me have the kekaubi, 
pretty brother?” 

“You may have it, but not for sixpence, I’ll give it to you.” 

“ Parraco tute, that is, I thank you, brother ; the rikkeni 
kekaubi is now mine. O, rare! I thank you kindly, brother.” 

Starting up, she flung the bulrush aside which she had hither- 
to held in her hand, and seizing the kettle, she looked at it for a 
moment, and then began a kind of dance, flourishing the kettle 
over her head the while, and singing — 

The Rommany chi 
And the Rommany chal, 

Shall jaw tasaulor 
To drab the bawlor, 

And dook the gry 
Of the farming rye. 

“ Good-bye, brother, I must be going.” 

“ Good-bye, sister ; why do you sing that wicked song? ” 

“ Wicked song, hey, brother ! you don’t understand the song ! ” 

“Ha, ha! gypsy daughter,” said I, starting up and clapping 
my hands, “I don’t understand Rommany, don’t I? You shall 
see; here’s the answer to your gillie — 

“ The Rommany chi 
And the Rommany chal 
Love Luripen 
And dukkeripen, 

And hokkeripen, 

And every pen 
But Lachipen 
And tatchipen.” 

The girl, who had given a slight start when I began, remained 
for some time after I had concluded the song, standing motion- 
less as a statue, with the kettle in her hand. At length she came 
towards me, and stared me full in the face. “ Grey, tall, and 
talks Rommany,” said she to herself. In her countenance there 
was an expression which I had not seen before — an expression 
which struck me as being composed of fear, curiosity and the 
deepest hate. It was momentary, however, and was succeeded 
by one smiling, frank, and open. “ Ha, ha, brother,” said she, 
« well, I like you all the better for talking Rommany ; it is a 


380 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


sweet language, isn’t it? especially as you sing it. How did you 
pick it up? But you picked it up upon the roads, no doubt? 
Ha, it was funny in you to pretend not to know it, and you so 
flush with it all the time; it was not kind in you, however, to 
frighten the poor person’s child so by screaming out, but it was 
kind in you to give the rikkeni kekaubi to the child of the poor 
person. She will be grateful to you ; she will bring you her little 
dog to show you, her pretty juggal ; the poor person’s child will 
come and see you again ; you are not going away to-day, I hope, 
or to-morrow, pretty brother, grey-hair’d brother — you are not 
going away to-morrow, I hope ? ” 

“Nor the next day,” said I, “ only to take a stroll to see if I 
can sell a kettle ; good-bye, little sister, Rommany sister, ding} 
sister.” 

“Good-bye, tall brother,” said the girl, as she departed, 
singing 

The Rommany chi, etc. 

“ There’s something about that girl that I don’t understand,” 
said I to myself ; “ something mysterious. However, it is nothing 
to me, she knows not who I am, and if she did, what then ? ” 

Late that evening as I sat on the shaft of my cart in deep 
meditation, with my arms folded, I thought I heard a rustling in 
the bushes over against me. I turned my eyes in that direction, 
but saw nothing. “Some bird,” said I; “an owl, perhaps;” 
and once more I fell into meditation ; my mind wandered from 
one thing to another — musing now on the structure of the Roman 
tongue — now on the rise and fall of the Persian power — and now 
on the powers vested in recorders at quarter sessions. I was 
thinking what a fine thing it must be to be a recorder of the peace, 
when lifting up my eyes, I saw right opposite, not a culprit at the 
bar, but, staring at me through a gap in the bush, a face wild and 
strange, half-covered with grey hair ; I only saw it a moment, the 
next it had disappeared. 


CHAPTER LXXL 


The next day at an early hour I harnessed my little pony, and, 
putting my things in my cart, I went on my projected stroll. 
Crossing the moor, I arrived in about an hour at a small village, 
from which, after a short stay, I proceeded to another, and from 
thence to a third. I found that the name of Slingsby was well 
known in these parts. 

“ If you are a friend of Slingsby you must be an honest lad,” 
said an ancient crone ; “ you shall never want for work whilst I 
can give it you. Here, take my kettle, the bottom came out this 
morning, and lend me that of yours till you bring it back. I’m 
not afraid to trust you — not I. Don’t hurry yourself, young man ; 
if you don’t come back for a fortnight I shan’t have the worse 
opinion of you.” 

I returned to my quarters at evening, tired but rejoiced at 
heart ; I had work before me for several days, having collected 
various kekaubies which required mending, in place of those which 
I left behind — those which I had been employed upon during the 
last few days. I found all quiet in the lane or glade, and, un- 
harnessing my little horse, I once more pitched my tent in the old 
spot beneath the ash, lighted my fire, ate my frugal meal, and 
then, after looking for some time at the heavenly bodies, and 
more particularly at the star Jupiter, I entered my tent, lay down 
upon my pallet, and went to sleep. 

Nothing occurred on the following day which requires any 
particular notice, nor indeed on the one succeeding that. It was 
about noon on the third day that I sat beneath the shade of the 
ash tree ; I was not at work, for the weather was particularly hot, 
and I felt but little inclination to make any exertion. Leaning 
my back against the tree, I was not long in falling into a slumber. 
I particularly remember that slumber of mine beneath the ash tree, 
for it was about the sweetest that I ever enjoyed ; how long I 
continued in it I do not know ; I could almost have wished that 
it had lasted to the present time. All of a sudden it appeared to 
me that a voice cried in my ear, “ Danger ! danger ! danger ! ” 

(381) 


382 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


Nothing seemingly could be more distinct than the words which 
I heard ; then an uneasy sensation came over me, which I strove 
to get rid of, and at last succeeded, for I awoke. The gypsy girl 
was standing just opposite to me, with her eyes fixed upon my 
countenance ; a singular kind of little dog stood beside her. 

“ Ha ! ” said I, “ was it you that cried danger ? What danger 
is there? ” 

“ Danger, brother, there is no danger ; what danger should 
there be. I called to my little dog, but that was in the wood ; my 
little dog’s name is not danger, but stranger ; what danger should 
there be, brother? ” 

“What, indeed, except in sleeping beneath a tree; what is 
that you have got in your hand ? ” 

“ Something for you,” said the girl, sitting down and proceed- 
ing to untie a white napkin ; “a pretty manricli, so sweet, so nice; 
when I went home to my people I told my grandbebee how kind 
you had been to the poor person’s child, and when my grandbebee 
saw the kekaubi, she said : ‘ Hir mi devlis, it won’t do for the 
poor people to be ungrateful ; by my God, I will bake a cake for 
the young harko mescro 

“But there are two cakes.” 

“Yes, brother, two cakes, both for you; my grandbebee 
meant them both for you — but list, brother, I will have one of 
them for bringing them. I know you will give me one, pretty 
brother, grey-haired brother — which shall I have, brother?” 

In the napkin were two round cakes, seemingly made of rich 
and costly compounds, and precisely similar in form, each weigh- 
ing about half a pound. 

“ Which shall I have, brother? ” said the gypsy girl. 

“ Whichever you please.” 

“ No, brother, no, the cakes are yours, not mine, it is for you 
to say.” 

“ Well, then, give me the one nearest you, and take the 
other.” 

“ Yes, brother, yes,” said the girl ; and taking the cakes, she 
flung them into the air two or three times, catching them as they 
fell, and singing the while. “ Pretty brother, grey-haired brother 
— here, brother,” said she, “here is your cake, this other is 
mine.” 

“ Are you sure,” said I, taking the cake, “ that this is the one 
I chose?” 

“Quite sure, brother; but if you like you can have mine; 
there’s no difference ; however — shall I eat ? ” 


THE POISONED CAKE. 


333 


1835.] 


“Yes, sister, eat.” 

“See, brother, I do; now, brother, eat, pretty brother, grey- 
haired brother.” 

“I am not hungry.” 

“Not hungry ! well, what then — what has being hungry to do 
with the matter? It is my grandbebee’s cake which was sent 
because you were kind to the poor person’s child ; eat, brother, 
eat, and we shall be like the children in the wood that the gorgios 
speak of.” 

“ The children in the wood had nothing to eat.” 

“ Yes, they had hips and haws ; we have better. Eat, brother.” 

“ See, sister, I do,” and I ate a piece of the cake. 

“Well, brother, how do you like it?” said the girl, looking 
fixedly at me. 

“It is very rich and sweet, and yet there is something strange 
about it; I don’t think I shall eat any more.” 

“Fie, brother, fie, to find fault with the poor person’s cake; 
see, I have nearly eaten mine,” 

“ That’s a pretty little dog.” 

“ Is it not, brother? that’s my juggal, my little sister, as I call 
her.” 

“Come here, Juggal,” said I to the animal. 

“ What do you want with my juggal ? ” said the girl. 

“ Only to give her a piece of cake,” said I, offering the dog a 
piece which I had just broken off. 

“ What do you mean ? ” said the girl, snatching the dog away ; 
“ my grandbebee’s cake is not for dogs.” 

“ Why, I just now saw you give the animal a piece of yours.” 

“ You lie, brother, you saw no such thing; but I see how it 
is, you wish to affront the poor person’s child. I shall go to my 
house.” 

“ Keep still, and don’t be angry ; see, I have eaten the piece 
which I offered the dog. I meant no offence. It is a sweet cake 
after all.” 

“ Isn’t it, brother? I am glad you like it. Offence ! brother, 
no offence at all ! I am so glad you like my grandbebee’s cake, 
but she will be wanting me at home. Eat one piece more of 
grandbebee’s cake and I will go.” 

“ I am not hungry, I will put the rest by.” 

“ One piece more before I go, handsome brother, grey-haired 
brother.” 

“ I will not eat any more, I have already eaten more than I 
wished to oblige you ; if you must go, good-day to you.” 


3«4 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


The girl rose upon her feet, looked hard at me, then at the 
remainder of the cake which I held in my hand, and then at me 
again, and then stood for a moment or two, as if in deep thought ; 
presently an air of satisfaction came over her countenance, she 
smiled and said : “ Well, brother, well, do as you please ; I merely 
wished you to eat because you have been so kind to the poor 
person’s child. She loves you so, that she could have wished to 
have seen you eat it all ; good-bye, brother, I daresay when I am 
gone you will eat some more of it, and if you don’t I daresay you 
have eaten enough to — to — show your love for us. After all, it 
was a poor person’s cake, a Rommany manricli, and all you 
gorgios are somewhat gorgious. Farewell, brother, pretty brother, 
grey-haired brother. Come, juggal.” 

I remained under the ash tree seated on the grass for a minute 
or two, and endeavoured to resume the occupation in which I 
had been engaged before I fell asleep, but I felt no inclination 
for labour. I then thought I would sleep again, and once more 
reclined against the tree, and slumbered for some little time, but 
my sleep was more agitated than before. Something appeared to 
bear heavy on my breast. I struggled in my sleep, fell on the grass, 
and awoke ; my temples were throbbing, there was a burning in 
my eyes, and my mouth felt parched ; the oppression about the 
chest which I had felt in my sleep still continued. “ I must shake 
off these feelings,” said I, “and get upon my legs.” I walked 
rapidly up and down upon the green sward ; at length, feeling my 
thirst increase, I directed my steps down the narrow path to the 
spring which ran amidst the bushes ; arriving there, I knelt down 
and drank of the water, but on lifting up my head I felt thirstier 
than before ; again I drank, but with like results ; I was about to 
drink for the third time, when I felt a dreadful qualm which 
instantly robbed me of nearly all my strength. What can be the 
matter with me, thought I ; but I suppose I have made myself 
ill by drinking cold water. I got up and made the best of my 
way back to my tent ; before I reached it the qualm had seized 
me again, and I was deadly sick. I flung myself on my pallet ; 
qualm succeeded qualm, but in the intervals my mouth was dry 
and burning, and I felt a frantic desire to drink, but no water 
was at hand, and to reach the spring once more was impossible : 
the qualms continued, deadly pains shot through my whole frame ; 
I could bear my agonies no longer, and I fell into a trance or 
swoon. How long I continued therein I know not ; on recovering, 
however, I felt somewhat better, and attempted to lift my head 
off my couch ; the next moment, however, the qualms and pains 


MRS. HERNE. 


385 


1825.] 


returned, if possible, with greater violence than before. I am 
dying, thought I, like a dog, without any help ; and then me- 
thought I heard a sound at a distance like people singing, and 
then once more I relapsed into my swoon. 

I revived just as a heavy blow sounded upon the canvas of 
the tent. I started, but my condition did not permit me to rise ; 
again the same kind of blow sounded upon the canvas ; I thought 
for a moment of crying out and requesting assistance, but an 
inexplicable something chained my tongue, and now I heard a 
whisper on the outside of the tent. “ He does not move, bebee,” 
said a voice which I knew. “ I should not wonder if it has done 
for him already ; however, strike again with your ran ; ” and then 
there was another blow, after which another voice cried aloud in 
a strange tone : “ Is the gentleman of the house asleep, or is he 
taking his dinner ? ” I remained quite silent and motionless, and 
in another moment the voice continued: “What, no answer? 
what can the gentleman of the house be about that he makes no 
answer ? Perhaps the gentleman of the house may be darning his 
stockings ? ” Thereupon a face peered into the door of the tent, at 
the farther extremity of which I was stretched. It was that of a 
woman, but owing to the posture in which she stood, with her 
back to the light, and partly owing to a large straw bonnet, I 
could distinguish but very little of the features of her countenance. 
I had, however, recognised her voice; it was that of my old 
acquaintance, Mrs. Herne. “ Ho, ho, sir ! ” said she, “ here you 
are. Come here, Leonora,” said she to the gypsy girl, who 
pressed in at the other side of the door ; “ here is the gentleman, 
not asleep, but only stretched out after dinner. Sit down on 
your ham, child, at the door ; I shall do the same. There — you 
have seen me before, sir, have you not?” 

“The gentleman makes no answer, bebee; perhaps he does 
not know you.” 

“ I have known him of old, Leonora,” said Mrs. Herne ; 
“and, to tell you the truth, though I spoke to him just now, I 
expected no answer.” 

“ It’s a way he has, bebee, I suppose? ” 

“ Yes, child, it’s a way he has.” 

“Take off your bonnet, bebee; perhaps he cannot see your 
face.” 

“ I do not think that will be of much use, child ; however, I 
will take off my bonnet — there— and shake out my hair— there — 
you have seen this hair before, sir, and this face ” 

“No answer, bebee.” 


25 


3 86 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“Though the one was not quite so grey, nor the other so 
wrinkled.” 

“ How came they so, bebee? ” 

“ All along of this gorgio, child.” 

“ The gentleman in the house, you mean, bebee.” 

“Yes, child, the gentleman in the house. God grant that I 
may preserve my temper. Do you know, sir, my name ? My 
name is Herne, which signifies a hairy individual, though neither 
grey-haired nor wrinkled. It is not the nature of the Hernes to 
be grey or wrinkled, even when they are old, and I am not old.” 

“ How old are you, bebee? ” 

“Sixty-five years, child — an inconsiderable number. My 
mother was a hundred and one — a considerable age— when she 
died, yet she had not one grey hair, and not more than six 
wrinkles — an inconsiderable number.” 

“ She had no griefs, bebee ? ” 

“ Plenty, child, but not like mine.” 

“Not quite so hard to bear, bebee? ” 

“ No, child ; my head wanders when I think of them. After 
the death of my husband, who came to his end untimeously, I 
went to live with a daughter of mine, married out among certain 
Romans who walk about the eastern counties, and with whom for 
some time I found a home and pleasant society, for they lived 
right Romanly, which gave my heart considerable satisfaction, 
who am a Roman born, and hope to die so. When I say right 
Romanly, I mean that they kept to themselves, and were not 
much given to blabbing about their private matters in promiscuous 
company. Well, things went on in this way for some time, when 
one day my son-in-law brings home a young gorgio of singular 
and outrageous ugliness, and without much preamble, says to me 
and mine, * This is my pal, a’n’t he a beauty ? fall down and 
worship him \ ‘ Hold,’ said I, ‘I for one will never consent to 

such foolishness.’ ” 

“That was right, bebee', I think I should have done the 
same.” 

“I think you would, child; but what was the profit of it? 
The whole party makes an almighty of this gorgio, lets him into 
their ways, says prayers of his making, till things come to such a 
pass that my own daughter says to me : T shall buy myself a veil 
and fan, and treat myself to a play and sacrament ’. ‘ Don’t,’ 

says I ; says she, ‘ I should like for once in my life to be courtesied 
to as a Christian gentlewoman 

“ Very foolish of her, bebee.” 


YOU'VE TAKEN DROWS , SIR ! 


387 


1825.] 


“Wasn’t it, child? Where was I? At the fan and sacra- 
ment ; with a heavy heart I put seven score miles between us, 
came back to the hairy ones, and found them over-given to gorgious 
companions ; said I, ‘ foolish manners is catching, all this comes 
of that there gorgio’. Answers the child Leonora, ‘ Take comfort, 
bebee, I hate the gorgios as much as you do 

“ And I say so again, bebee, as much or more.” 

“ Time flows on, I engage in many matters, in most miscarry. 
Am sent to prison ; says I to myself, I am become foolish. Am 
turned out of prison, and go back to the hairy ones, who receive 
me not over courteously ; says I, for their unkindness, and my 
own foolishness, all the thanks to that gorgio. Answers to me 
the child, ‘I wish I could set eyes upon him, bebee’.” 

“ I did so, bebee ; go on.” 

“ How shall I know him, bebee? ” says the child. ‘Young 
and grey, tall, and speaks Romanly.’ Runs to me the child, and 
says, ‘I’ve found him, bebee ’. ‘ Where, child ?’ says I. ‘Come 
with me, bebee,’ says the child. ‘That’s he,’ says I, as I looked 
at my gentleman through the hedge.” 

“ Ha, ha ! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog.” 

“ You have taken drows, sir,” said Mrs. Herne ; “ do you 
hear, sir ? drows ; tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison.” 

And thereupon the girl clapped her hands, and sang — 

The Rommany churl 
And the Rommany girl, 

To-morrow shall hie 
To poison the sty, 

And bewitch on the mead 
The farmer’s steed. 

“ Do you hear that, sir ? ” said Mrs. Herne ; “ the child has 
tipped you a stave of the song of poison : that is, she has sung it 
Christianly, though perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly ; 
you were always fond of what was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, 
child.” 

“ He has heard it Romanly already, bebee; ’twas by that I 
found him out, as I told you.” 

“ Halloo, sir, are you sleeping ? you have taken drows ; the 
gentleman makes no answer. God give me patience ! ” 

“ And what if he doesn’t, bebee ; isn’t he poisoned like a hog? 
Gentleman ! indeed, why call him gentleman ? If he ever was one 
he’s broke, and is now a tinker, a worker of blue metal.” 

“ That’s his way, child, to-day a tinker, to-morrow something 
else ; and as for being drabbed, I don’t know what to say about it.” 


388 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee? but look there, 
bebee ; ha, ha, look at the gentleman’s motions.” 

“ He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho ! sir, you have taken 
drows ; what, another throe ! writhe, sir, writhe, the hog died by 
the drow of gypsies ; I saw him stretched at evening. That’s 
yourself, sir. There is no hope, sir, no help, you have taken 
drow ; shall I tell you your fortune, sir, your dukkerin ? God 
bless you, pretty gentleman, much trouble will you have to suffer, 
and much water to cross ; but never mind, pretty gentleman, you 
shall be fortunate at the end, and those who hate shall take off 
their hats to you.” 

“ Hey, bebee ! ” cried the girl ; “ what is this ? what do you 
mean ? you have blessed the gorgio ! ” 

“ Blessed him ! no, sure \ what did I say ? Oh, I remember, 
I’m mad ; well, I can’t help it, I said what the dukkerin dook 
told me ; woe’s me ; he’ll get up yet.” 

“ Nonsense, bebee ! Look at his motions, he’s drabbed, spite 
of dukkerin.” 

“ Don’t say so, child ; he’s sick, ’tis true, but don’t laugh at 
dukkerin, only folks do that that know no better. I, for one, will 
never laugh at the dukkerin dook. Sick again ; I wish he was 
gone.” 

“ He’ll soon be gone, bebee ; let’s leave him. He’s as good as 
gone ; look there, he’s dead.” 

“ No, he’s not, he’ll get up — I feel it ; can’t we hasten him?” 

“ Hasten him ! yes, to be sure ; set the dog upon him. Here, 
juggal, look in there, my dog.” 

The dog made its appearance at the door of the tent, and 
began to bark and tear up the ground. 

“ At him, juggal, at him ; he wished to poison, to drab you. 
Halloo ! ” 

The dog barked violently, and seemed about to spring at my 
face, but retreated. 

“ The dog won’t fly at him, child ; he flashed at the dog with 
his eye, and scared him. He’ll get up.” 

“ Nonsense, bebee ! you make me angry ; how should he get 
up ? ” 

“ The dook tells me so, and, what’s more, I had a dream. I 
thought I was at York, standing amidst a crowd to see a man 
hung, and the crowd shouted, 4 There he comes ! ’ and I looked, 
and lo ! it was the tinker ; before I could cry with joy I was 
whisked away, and I found myself in Ely’s big church, which was 
chock full of people to hear the dean preach, and all eyes were 


1825.] 


HE'LL GET UP YET ! 


389 


turned to the big pulpit ; and presently I heard them say, ‘ There 
he mounts ! ’ and I looked up to the big pulpit, and, lo ! the 
tinker was in the pulpit, and he raised his arm and began to preach. 
Anon, I found myself at York again, just as the drop fell, and I 
looked up, and I saw, not the tinker, but my own self hanging in 
the air.” 

“ You are going mad, bebee ; if you want to hasten him, take 
your stick and poke him in the eye.” 

“ That will be of no use, child, the dukkerin tells me so ; but 
I will try what I can do. Halloo, tinker ! you must introduce 
yourself into a quiet family, and raise confusion — must you ? 
You must steal its language, and, what was never done before, 
write it down Christianly — must you ? Take that — and that ; ” 
and she stabbed violently with her stick towards the end of the 
tent. 

“That’s right, bebee, you struck his face; now, once more, 
and let it be in the eye. Stay, what’s that ? get up, bebee.” 

“ What’s the matter, child? ” 

“ Some one is coming, come away.” 

“ Let me make sure of him, child ; he’ll be up yet.” And 
thereupon Mrs. Herne, rising, leaned forward into the tent, and 
supporting herself against the pole, took aim in the direction of the 
farther end. “ I will thrust out his eye,” said she ; and, lunging 
with her stick, she would probably have accomplished her purpose 
had not at that moment the pole of the tent given way, whereupon 
she fell to the ground, the canvas falling upon her and her in- 
tended victim. 

“ Here’s a pretty affair, bebee,” screamed the girl. 

“ He’ll get up yet,” said Mrs. Herne, from beneath the canvas. 

“ Get up ! — get up yourself ; where are you ? where is your 

Here, there, bebee, here’s the door ; there, make haste, 

they are coming.” 

“ He’ll get up yet,” said Mrs. Herne, recovering her breath ; 
“ the dook tells me so.” 

“ Never mind him or the dook ; he is drabbed ; come away, 
or we shall be grabbed— both of us.” 

“ One more blow, I know where his head lies.” 

“You are mad, bebee ; leave the fellow — gorgio avella.” 

And thereupon the females hurried away. 

A vehicle of some kind was evidently drawing nigh ; in a 
little time it came alongside of the place where lay the fallen tent, 
and stopped suddenly. There was a silence for a moment, and 
then a parley ensued between two voices, one of which was that 


LA VENGRO. 


390 


[1825. 


of a woman. It was not in English, but in a deep guttural 
tongue. 

“ Peth yw hono sydd yn gorwedd yna ar y ddaear ? ” said a 
masculine voice. 

“ Yn wirionedd — I do not know what it can be,” said the 
female voice, in the same tongue. 

“ Here is a cart, and there are tools ; but what is that on the 
ground ? ” 

“ Something moves beneath it ; and what was that — a groan ?” 

“ Shall I get down ?” 

“ Of course, Peter, some one may want your help.” 

“ Then I will get down, though I do not like this place, it is 
frequented by Egyptians, and I do not like their yellow faces, nor 
their clibberty clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn says. Now, I am 
down. It is a tent, Winifred, and see, here is a boy beneath it. 
Merciful father ! what a face ! ” 

A middle-aged man, with a strongly marked and serious 
countenance, dressed in sober-coloured habiliments, had lifted up 
the stifling folds of the tent and was bending over me. “ Can 
you speak, my lad?” said he in English, “what is the matter 
with you ? If you could but tell me, I could perhaps help 

you ” “ What is it that you say ? I can’t hear you. I will 

kneel down ; ” and he flung himself on the ground, and placed 
his ear close to my mouth. “Now speak if you can. Hey! 
what ! no, sure, God forbid ! ” then starting up, he cried to a 
female who sat in the cart, anxiously looking on — Gwenwyn ! 
Gwenwyn ! yw y gwas wedi ei gwe?iwynaw. The oil! Winifred, 
the oil ! ” 


CHAPTER LXXI1. 


The oil, which the strangers compelled me to take, produced the 
desired effect, though, during at least two hours, it was very doubt- 
ful whether or not my life would be saved. At the end of that 
period the man said, that with the blessing of God, he would 
answer for my life. He then demanded whether I thought I 
could bear to be removed from the place in which we were ? “ for 
I like it not,” he continued, “as something within me tells me 
that it is not good for any of us to be here ” I told him, as well 
as I was able, that I, too, should be glad to leave the place ; 
whereupon, after collecting my things, he harnessed my pony, 
and, with the assistance of the woman, he contrived to place me 
in the cart ; he then gave me a draught out of a small phial, and 
we set forward at a slow pace, the man walking by the side of the 
cart in which I lay. It is probable that the draught consisted of 
a strong opiate, for after swallowing it I fell into a deep slumber ; 
on my awaking, I found that the shadows of night had enveloped 
the earth — we were still moving on. Shortly, however, after 
descending a declivity, we turned into a lane, at the entrance of 
which was a gate. This lane conducted to a meadow, through 
the middle of which ran a small brook ; it stood between two 
rising grounds, that on the left, which was on the farther side of 
the water, was covered with wood, whilst the one on the right, 
which was not so high, was crowned with the white walls of what 
appeared to be a farm-house. 

Advancing along the meadow, we presently came to a place 
where grew three immense oaks, almost on the side of the brook, 
over which they flung their arms, so as to shade it as with a 
canopy ; the ground beneath was bare of grass, and nearly as 
hard and smooth as the floor of a barn. Having led his own cart 
on one side of the midmost tree, and my own on the other, the 
stranger said to me : “ This is the spot where my wife and myself 
generally tarry in the summer season, when we come into these 
parts. We are about to pass the night here. I suppose you will 
have no objection to do the same? Indeed, I do not see what 


39 * 


LA VENGR6. 


O825. 


else you could do under present circumstances.” After receiving 
my answer, in which I, of course, expressed my readiness to 
assent to his proposal, he proceeded to unharness his horse, and, 
feeling myself much better, I got down, and began to make 
the necessary preparations for passing the night beneath the oak. 

Whilst thus engaged, I felt myself touched on the shoulder, 
and, looking round, perceived the woman, whom the stranger 
called Winifred, standing close to me. The moon was shining 
brightly upon her, and I observed that she was very good-looking, 
with a composed, yet cheerful expression of countenance ; her 
dress was plain and primitive, very much resembling that of a 
Quaker. She held a straw bonnet in her hand. “ I am glad 
to see thee moving about, young man,” said she, in a soft, placid 
tone ; “ I could scarcely have expected it. Thou must be 
wondrous strong ; many, after what thou hast suffered, would not 
have stood on their feet for weeks and months. What do I say ? — 
Peter, my husband, who is skilled in medicine, just now told me 
that not one in five hundred would have survived what thou hast 
this day undergone ; but allow me to ask thee one thing, Hast 
thou returned thanks to God for thy deliverance ? ” I made no 
answer, and the woman, after a pause, said : “ Excuse me, young 
man, but do you know anything of God?” “Very little,” I 
replied, “ but I should say He must be a wondrous strong person, 
if He made all those big bright things up above there, to say no- 
thing of the ground on which we stand, which bears beings like 
these oaks, each of which is fifty times as strong as myself, and 
will live twenty times as long.” The woman was silent for some 
moments, and then said : “ I scarcely know in what spirit thy 
words are uttered. If thou art serious, however, I would caution 
thee against supposing that the power of God is more manifested 
in these trees, or even in those bright stars above us, than in thy- 
self — they are things of time, but thou art a being destined to an 
eternity; it depends upon thyself whether thy eternity shall be 
one of joy or sorrow.” 

Here she was interrupted by the man, who exclaimed from 
the other side of the tree : “ Winifred, it is getting late, you had 
better go up to the house on the hill to inform our friends of our 
arrival, or they will have retired for the night”. “True,” said 
Winifred, and forthwith wended her way to the house in question, 
returning shortly with another woman, whom the man, speaking 
in the same language which I had heard him first use, greeted by 
the name of Mary ; the woman replied in the same tongue, but 
almost immediately said, in English : “ We hoped to have heard 


1825.] 


THE WELSH PREACHER. 


393 


you speak to night, Peter, but we cannot expect that now, seeing 
that it is so late, owing to your having been detained by the way, 
as Winifred tells me ; nothing remains for you to do now but to 
sup — to-morrow, with God’s will, we shall hear you ”. “ And to- 

night, also, with God’s will, provided you be so disposed. Let 
those of your family come hither.” “They will be hither 
presently,” said Mary, “for knowing that thou art arrived, they 
will, of course, come and bid thee welcome.” And scarcely had 
she spoke, when I beheld a party of people descending the moon- 
lit side of the hill. They soon arrived at the place where we 
were ; they might amount in all to twelve individuals. The 
principal person was a tall, athletic man, of about forty, dressed 
like a plain country farmer ; this was, I soon found, the husband 
of Mary ; the rest of the group consisted of the children of these 
two, and their domestic servants. One after another they all 
shook Peter by the hand, men and women, boys and girls, and 
expressed their joy at seeing him. After which, he said : “ Now, 
friends, if you please, I will speak a few words to you ”. A stool 
was then brought him from the cart, which he stepped on, and 
the people arranging themselves round him, some standing, some 
seated on the ground, he forthwith began to address them in a 
clear, distinct voice; and the subject of his discourse was the 
necessity, in all human beings, of a change of heart. 

The preacher was better than his promise, for, instead of 
speaking a few words, he preached for at least three-quarters of 
an hour; none of the audience, however, showed the slightest 
symptom of weariness ; on the contrary, the hope of each indi- 
vidual appeared to hang upon the words which proceeded from 
his mouth. At the conclusion of the sermon or discourse, the 
whole assembly again shook Peter by the hand, and returned 
to their house, the mistress of the family saying, as she departed : 
“ I shall soon be back, Peter, I go but to make arrangements for 
the supper of thyself and company ” ; and, in effect, she presently 
returned, attended by a young woman, who bore a tray in her 
hands. “ Set it down, Jessy,” said the mistress to the girl, “ and 
then betake thyself to thy rest ; I shall remain here for a little time 
to talk with my friends.” The girl departed, and the preacher and 
the two females placed themselves on the ground about the tray. 
The man gave thanks, and himself and his wife appeared to be 
about to eat, when the latter suddenly placed her hand upon his 
arm, and said something to him in a low voice, whereupon he 
exclaimed, “ Ay, truly, we were both forgetful ” ; and then getting 
up, he came towards me, who stood a little way off, leaning 


394 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


against the wheel of my cart ; and, taking me by the hand, he 
said : “ Pardon us, young man, we were both so engaged in our 
own creature-comforts that we forgot thee, but it is not too late 
to repair our fault ; wilt thou not join us, and taste our bread and 
milk?” “I cannot eat,” I replied, “but I think I could drink a 
little milk ; ” whereupon he led me to the rest, and seating me by 
his side, he poured some milk into a horn cup, saying : “ ‘ Croesaw\ 
That,” added he with a smile, “ is Welsh for welcome.” 

The fare upon the tray was of the simplest description, 
consisting of bread, cheese, milk and curds. My two friends 
partook with a good appetite. “ Mary,” said the preacher, 
addressing himself to the woman of the house, “every time I 
come to visit thee, I find thee less inclined to speak Welsh. I 
suppose, in a little time, thou wilt entirely have forgotten 
it; hast thou taught it to any of thy children?” “The two 
eldest understand a few words,” said the woman, “ but my 
husband does not wish them to learn it; he says sometimes, 
jocularly, that though it pleased him to marry a Welsh wife, it 
does not please him to have Welsh children. ‘ Who,’ I have 
heard him say, ‘would be a Welshman, if he could be an 
Englishman?’” “I for one,” said the preacher, somewhat 
hastily ; “ not to be king of all England would I give up my 
birthright as a Welshman. Your husband is an excellent person, 
Mary, but I am afraid he is somewhat prejudiced.” “You do 
him justice, Peter, in saying that he is an excellent person,” said 
the woman ; “ as to being prejudiced, I scarcely know what to 
say, but he thinks that two languages in the same kingdom are 
almost as bad as two kings.” “That’s no bad observation,” 
said the preacher, “ and it is generally the case ; yet, thank God, 
the Welsh and English go on very well, side by side, and I hope 
will do so till the Almighty calls all men to their long account.” 
“They jog on very well now,” said the woman; “but I have 
heard my husband say that it was not always so, and that the 
Welsh, in old times, were a violent and ferocious people, for that 
once they hanged the mayor of Chester.” “ Ha, ha ! ” said the 
preacher, and his eyes flashed in the moonlight; “he told you 
that, did he?” “Yes,” said Mary; “once, when the mayor of 
Chester, with some of his people, was present at one of the fairs 
over the border, a quarrel arose between the Welsh and English, 
and the Welsh beat the English and hanged the mayor.” “ Your 
husband is a clever man,” said Peter, “and knows a great deal; 
did he tell you the name of the leader of the Welsh? No? then 
I will : the leader of the Welsh on that occasion was He 


1 825 *] “ GOD FORGIVE MB !* 395 


was a powerful chieftain, and there was an old feud between him 
and the men of Chester. Afterwards, when two hundred of the 
men of Chester invaded his country to take revenge for their 
mayor, he enticed them into a tower, set fire to it, and burnt 

them all. That was a very fine, noble — God forgive me, 

what was I about to say ! — a very bad, violent man ; but, Mary, 
this is very carnal and unprofitable conversation, and in holding 
it we set a very bad example to the young man here — let us 
change the subject.” 

They then began to talk on religious matters. At length 
Mary departed to her abode, and the preacher and his wife 
retired to their tilted cart. 

“ Poor fellow, he seems to be almost brutally ignorant,” said 
Peter, addressing his wife in their native language, after they had 
bidden me farewell for the night. 

“ I am afraid he is,” said Winifred ; “ yet my heart warms to 
the poor lad, he seems so forlorn.” 


CHAPTER LXXI1I. 


I slept soundly during that night, partly owing to the influence 
of the opiate. Early in the morning I was awakened by the 
voices of Peter and his wife, who were singing a morning hymn 
in their own language. Both subsequently prayed long and 
fervently. I lay still till their devotions were completed, and 
then left my tent. “ Good-morning,” said Peter, “ how dost 
thou feel?” “Much better,” said I, “than I could have 
expected.” “I am glad of it,” said Peter. “Art thou hungry? 
yonder comes our breakfast,” pointing to the same young woman 
I had seen the preceding night, who was again descending the 
hill, bearing the tray upon her head. 

“What dost thou intend to do, young man, this day?” said 
Peter, when we had about half finished breakfast. “ Do,” said 
I, “as I do other days, what I can.” “And dost thou pass 
this day as thou dost other days?” said Peter. “Why not?” 
said I; “what is there in this day different from the rest? it 
seems to be of the same colour as yesterday.” “ Art thou 
aware,” said the wife interposing, “what day it is? that it is 
Sabbath? that it is Sunday?” “ No,” said I, “ I did not know 
that it was Sunday.” “And how did that happen?” said Wini- 
fred with a sigh. “To tell you the truth,” said I, “ I live very 
much alone, and pay very little heed to the passing of time.” 
“ And yet of what infinite importance is time,” said Winifred. 
“ Art thou not aware that every year brings thee nearer to thy 
end?” “ I do not think,” said I, “that I am so near my end 
as I was yesterday.” “Yes thou art,” said the woman; “thou 
wast not doomed to die yesterday ; an invisible hand was watching 
over thee yesterday ; but thy day will come, therefore improve 
the time ; be grateful that thou wast saved yesterday ; and, oh ! 
reflect on one thing ; if thou hadst died yesterday, where wouldst 
thou have been now?” “ Cast into the earth, perhaps,” said I. 
“ I have heard Mr. Petulengro say that to be cast into the earth 
is the natural end of man.” “Who is Mr. Petulengro?” said 
Peter, interrupting his wife, as she was about to speak. “ Master 


DISCOURSE. 


397 


1825.] 


of the horse-shoe,” said I, “and, according to his own account, 
king of Egypt.” “I understand,” said Peter, “head of some 
family of wandering Egyptians — they are a race utterly godless. 
Art thou of them? — but no, thou art not, thou hast not their 
yellow blood. I suppose thou belongest to the family of wander- 
ing artisans called I do not like you the worse for belonging 

to them. A mighty speaker of old sprang up from amidst that 
family.” “Who was he?” said I. “John Bunyan,” replied 
Peter, reverently, “and the mention of his name reminds me 
that I have to preach this day ; wilt thou go and hear ? the 
distance is not great, only half a mile.” “ No,” said I, “ I will 
not go and hear.” “Wherefore?” said Peter. “I belong to 
the church,” said I, “and not to the congregations.” “Oh! 
the pride of that church,” said Peter, addressing his wife in their 
own tongue, “exemplified even in the lowest and most ignorant 
of its members.” “Then thou, doubtless, meanest to go to 
church,” said Peter, again addressing me; “there is a church 
on the other side of that wooded hill.” “ No,” said I, “ I do not 
mean to go to church.” “May I ask thee wherefore?” said 
Peter. “ Because,” said I, “I prefer remaining beneath the 
shade of these trees, listening to the sound of the leaves, and 
the tinkling of the waters.” 

“Then thou intendest to remain here?” said Peter, looking 
fixedly at me. “If I do not intrude,” said I ; “ but if I do, I 
will wander away; I wish to be beholden to nobody — perhaps 
you wish me to go?” “ On the contrary,” said Peter, “ I wish 
you to stay. 1 begin to see something in thee which has much 
interest for me ; but we must now bid thee farewell for the rest 
of the day, the time is drawing nigh for us to repair to the place 
of preaching ; before we leave thee alone, however, I should wish 
to ask thee a question : Didst thou seek thy own destruction 
yesterday, and didst thou wilfully take that poison?” “No,” 
said I ; “ had I known there had been poison in the cake, I 
certainly should not have taken it.” “And who gave it thee?” 
said Peter. “ An enemy of mine,” I replied. “ Who is thy 
enemy? ” “ An Egyptian sorceress and poison monger.” “ Thy 

enemy is a female. I fear thou hadst given her cause to hate 
thee — of what did she complain?” “That I had stolen the 
tongue out of her head.” “ I do not understand thee — is she 
young?” “About sixty-five.” 

Here Winifred interposed. “ Thou didst call her just now by 
hard names, young man,” said she ; “ I trust thou dost bear no 
malice against her.” “No,” said I, “I bear no malice against 


39$ 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


her.” “Thou art not wishing to deliver her into the hand of 
what is called justice?” “By no means,” said I; “I have lived 
long enough upon the roads not to cry out for the constable when 
my finger is broken. I consider this poisoning as an accident of 
the roads ; one of those to which those who travel are occasion- 
ally subject.” “In short, thou forgivest thine adversary?” “Both 
now and for ever,” said I. “Truly,” said Winifred, “the spirit 
which the young man displayeth pleases me much : I should be 
loth that he left us yet. I have no doubt that, with the blessing 
of God, and a little of thy exhortation, he will turn out a true 
Christian before he leaveth us.” “ My exhortation ! ” said Peter, 
and a dark shade passed over his countenance ; “ thou forgettest 
what I am — I — I — but I am forgetting myself ; the Lord’s will be 
done ; and now put away the things, for I perceive that our friends 
are coming to attend us to the place of meeting.” 

Again the family which I had seen the night before 
descended the hill from their abode They were now dressed 
in their Sunday’s best. The master of the house led the way. 
They presently joined us, when a quiet, sober greeting ensued on 
each side. After a little time Peter shook me by the hand and 
bade me farewell till the evening; Winifred did the same, adding, 
that she hoped I should be visited by sweet and holy thoughts. 
The whole party then moved off in the direction by which we 
had come the preceding night, Peter and the master leading the 
way, followed by Winifred and the mistress of the family. As I 
gazed on their departing forms, I felt almost inclined to follow 
them to their place of worship. I did not stir, however, but 
remained leaning against my oak with my hands behind me. 

And after a time I sat me down at the foot of the oak with 
my face turned towards the water, and, folding my hands, I fell 
into deep meditation. I thought on the early Sabbaths of my 
life, and the manner in which I was wont to pass them. How 
carefully I said my prayers when I got up on the Sabbath morn, 
and how carefully I combed my hair and brushed my clothes in 
order that I might do credit to the Sabbath day. I thought of 

the old church at pretty D , the dignified rector, and yet 

more dignified clerk. I thought of England’s grand Liturgy, and 
Tate and Brady’s sonorous minstrelsy. I thought of the Holy 
Book, portions of which I was in the habit of reading between 
service. I thought, too, of the evening walk which I sometimes 
took in fine weather like the present, with my mother and brother 
— a quiet, sober walk, during which I would not break into a run, 
even to chase a butterfly, or yet more a honey-bee, being fully 


THE SABBATH DAY. 


399 


1825.] 


convinced of the dread importance of the day which God had 
hallowed. And how glad I was when I had got over the Sabbath 
day without having done anything to profane it. And how 
soundly I slept on the Sabbath night after the toil of being very 
good throughout the day. 

And when I had mused on those times a long while, I sighed 
and said to myself, I am much altered since then ; am I altered 
for the better ? And then I looked at my hands and my apparel, 
and sighed again. I was not wont of yore to appear thus on the 
Sabbath day. 

For a long time I continued in a state of deep meditation, 
till at last I lifted up my eyes to the sun, which, as usual during 
that glorious summer, was shining in unclouded majesty; and 
then I lowered them to the sparkling water, in which hundreds 
of the finny brood were disporting themselves, and then I thought 
what a fine thing it was to be a fish on such a fine summer day, 
and I wished myself a fish, or at least amongst the fishes ; and 
then I looked at my hands again, and then, bending over the 
water, I looked at my face in the crystal mirror, and started when 
I saw it, for it looked squalid and miserable. 

Forthwith I started up, and said to myself, I should like to 
bathe and cleanse myself from the squalor produced by my late 
hard life and by Mrs. Herne’s drow. I wonder if there is any 
harm in bathing on the Sabbath day. I will ask Winifred when 
she comes home ; in the meantime I will bathe, provided I can 
find a fitting place. 

But the brook, though a very delightful place for fish to 
disport in, was shallow, and by no means adapted for the 
recreation of so large a being as myself; it was, moreover, 
exposed, though I saw nobody at hand, nor heard a single 
human voice or sound. Following the winding of the brook I 
left the meadow, and, passing through two or three thickets, came 
to a place where between lofty banks the water ran deep and 
dark, and there I bathed, imbibing new tone and vigour into my 
languid and exhausted frame. 

Having put on my clothes, I returned by the way I had come 
to my vehicle beneath the oak tree. From thence, for want of 
something better to do, I strolled up the hill, on the top of which 
stood the farm-house ; it was a large and commodious building 
built principally of stone, and seeming of some antiquity, with a 
porch, on either side of which was an oaken bench. On the 
right was seated a young woman with a book in her hand, the 
same who had brought the tray to my friends and myself. 


400 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“Good-day,” said I, “pretty damsel, sitting in the farm 
porch.” 

“Good-day,” said the girl, looking at me for a moment, and 
then fixing her eyes on her book. 

“ That’s a nice book you are reading,” said I. 

The girl looked at me with surprise. “ How do you know what 
book it is ? ” said she. 

“ How do I know — never mind ; but a nice book it is — no love, 
no fortune-telling in it.” 

The girl looked at me half offended. “ Fortune-telling ! ” said 
she, “ I should think not. But you know nothing about it ; ” and 
she bent her head once more over the book. 

“ I tell you what, young person,” said I, “I know all about 
that book ; what will you wager that I do not ? ” 

“ I never wager,” said the girl. 

“Shall I tell you the name of it,” said I, “ O daughter of the 
dairy? ” 

The girl half started. “ I should never have thought,” said 
she, half timidly, “ that you could have guessed it.” 

“ I did not guess it,” said I, “ I knew it ; and meet and proper 
it is that you should read it.” 

“ Why so ? ” said the girl. 

“ Can the daughter of the dairy read a more fitting book than 
the Dairyman s Daughter ? ” 

“ Where do you come from? ” said the girl. 

“ Out of the water,” said I. “ Don’t start, I have been bathing ; 
are you fond of the water ? ” 

“No,” said the girl, heaving a sigh ; “I am not fond of the 
water, that is, of the sea ; ” and here she sighed again. 

“The sea is a wide gulf,” said I, “and frequently separates 
hearts.” 

The girl sobbed. 

“ Why are you alone here? ” said I. 

“ I take my turn with the rest,” said the girl, “ to keep at home 
on Sunday.” 

“And you are ” said I. 

“The master’s niece!” said the girl. “How came you to 
know it? But why did you not go with the rest and with your 
friends?” 

“ Who are those you call my friends ? ” said I. 

“ Peter and his wife.” 

“And who are they?” said I. 

“ Do you not know? ” said the girl ; “you came with them.” 


1825-] 


THE DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER. 


401 


“ They found me ill by the way,” said I ; “and they relieved 
me : I know nothing about them.” 

“ I thought you knew everything,” said the girl. 

“ There are two or three things which I do not know, and this 
is one of them. Who are they ? ” 

“ Did you never hear of the great Welsh preacher, Peter 
Williams ? ” 

“ Never,” said I. 

“ Well,” said the girl, “ this is he, and Winifred is his wife, and 
a nice person she is. Some people say, indeed, that she is as good 
a preacher as her husband, though of that matter I can say nothing, 
having never heard her preach. So these two wander over all Wales 
and the greater part of England, comforting the hearts of the people 
with their doctrine, and doing all the good they can. They fre- 
quently come here, for the mistress is a Welsh woman, and an 
old friend of both, and then they take up their abode in the cart 
beneath the old oaks down there by the stream.” 

“And what is their reason for doing so?” said I ; “would it 
not be more comfortable to sleep beneath a roof? ” 

“I know not their reasons,” said the girl, “but so it is; they 
never sleep beneath a roof unless the weather is very severe. I 
once heard the mistress say that Peter had something heavy upon 
his mind ; perhaps that is the cause. If he is unhappy, all I can 
say is, that I wish him otherwise, for he is a good man and a 
kind ” 

“ Thank you,” said I, “ I will now depart.” 

“ Hem !” said the girl, “ I was wishing ” 

“ What ? to ask me a question ? ” 

“Not exactly; but you seem to know everything; you men- 
tioned, I think, fortune-telling.” 

“ Do you wish me to tell your fortune? ” 

“ By no means ; but I have a friend at a distance at sea, and 
I should wish to know ” 

“When he will come back? I have told you already there 
are two or three things which I do not know — this is another of 
them. However, I should not be surprised if he were to come 
back some of these days ; I would, if I were in his place. In the 
meantime be patient, attend to the dairy, and read the Dairy- 
man's Daughter when you have nothing better to do.” 

It was late in the evening when the party of the morning 
returned. The farmer and his family repaired at once to their 
abode, and my two friends joined me beneath the tree. Peter 
sat down at the foot of the oak, and said nothing. Supper was 

26 


LA VENGRO. 


462 


[1825. 


brought by a servant, not the damsel of the porch. We sat round 
the tray, Peter said grace, but scarcely anything else ; he appeared 
sad and dejected, his wife looked anxiously upon him. I was as 
silent as my friends ; after a little time we retired to our separate 
places of rest. 

About midnight I was awakened by a noise ; I started up and 
listened ; it appeared to me that I heard voices and groans. In 
a moment I had issued from my tent — all was silent — but the 
next moment I again heard groans and voices ; they proceeded 
from the tilted cart where Peter and his wife lay ; I drew near, 
again there was a pause, and then I heard the voice of Peter, in 
an accent of extreme anguish, exclaim : “ Pechod Ysprydd Gian — 
O pechod Ysprydd Gian ! ” and then he uttered a deep groan. 
Anon, I heard the voice of Winifred, and never shall I forget the 
sweetness and gentleness of the tones of her voice in the stillness 
of that night. I did not understand all she said — she spoke in 
her native language, and I was some way apart ; she appeared to 
endeavour to console her husband, but he seemed to refuse all 
comfort, and, with many groans, repeated — “ Pechod Ysprydd 
Gian — O pechod Ysprydd Gian ! ” I felt I had no right to pry 
into their afflictions, and retired. 

Now, “ pechod Ysprydd Gian" interpreted, is the sin against 
the Holy Ghost. 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 


Peter and his wife did not proceed on any expedition during the 
following day. The former strolled gloomily about the fields, and 
the latter passed many hours in the farm-house. Towards evening, 
without saying a word to either, I departed with my vehicle, and 
finding my way to a small town at some distance, I laid in a store 
of various articles, with which I returned. It was night, and my 
two friends were seated beneath the oak ; they had just completed 
their frugal supper. “ We waited for thee some time,” said Winifred, 
“ but finding that thou didst not come, we began without thee ; but 
sit down, I pray thee, there is still enough for thee." “I will sit 
down,” said I, “but I require no supper, for I have eaten where 
I have been.” Nothing more particular occurred at the time. 
Next morning the kind pair invited me to share their breakfast. 
“I will not share your breakfast,” said I. “Wherefore not?” 
said Winifred anxiously. “Because,” said I, “it is not proper 
that I be beholden to you for meat and drink.” “ But we are 
beholden to other people,” said Winifred. “Yes,” said I, “but 
you preach to them, and give them ghostly advice, which con- 
siderably alters the matter ; not that I would receive anything 
from them, if I preached to them six times a day.” “ Thou art 
not fond of receiving favours, then, young man,” said Winifred. 
“I am not,” said I. “And of conferring favours?” “Nothing 
affords me greater pleasure,” said I, “ than to confer favours.” 
“ What a disposition ! ” said Winifred, holding up her hands ; 
“and this is pride, genuine pride — that feeling which the world 
agrees to call so noble. Oh, how mean a thing is pride ! never 
before did I see all the meanness of what is called pride ! ” 

“ But how wilt thou live, friend ? ” said Peter ; “ dost thou not 
intend to eat ? ” “ When I went out last night,” said I, “ I laid 

in a provision.” “Thou hast laid in a provision !” said Peter, 
“ pray let us see it. Really, friend,” said he, after I had produced 
it, “ thou must drive a thriving trade; here are provisions enough 
to last three people for several days. Here are butter and eggs, 
here is tea, here is sugar, and there is a flitch. I hope thou wilt 


404 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


let us partake of some of thy fare.” “I should be very happy 
if you would,” said I. “ Doubt not but we shall,” said Peter ; 
“ Winifred shall have some of thy flitch cooked for dinner. In 
the meantime, sit down, young man, and breakfast at our expense 
— we will dine at thine.” 

On the evening of that day, Peter and myself sat alone beneath 
the oak. We fell into conversation ; Peter was at first melancholy, 
but he soon became more cheerful, fluent and entertaining. I 
spoke but little, but I observed that sometimes what I said 
surprised the good Methodist. We had been silent some time. 
At length, lifting up my eyes to the broad and leafy canopy of the 
trees, I said, having nothing better to remark, “What a noble 
tree ! I wonder if the fairies ever dance beneath it? ” 

“Fairies!” said Peter, “fairies! how came you, young man, 
to know anything about the fair family ? ” 

“ I am an Englishman,” said I, “ and of course know 
something about fairies ; England was once a famous place for 
them.” 

“Was once, I grant you,” said Peter, “but is so no longer. 
I have travelled for years about England, and never heard them 
mentioned before ; the belief in them has died away, and even 
their name seems to be forgotten. If you had said you were a 
Welshman, I should not have been surprised. The Welsh have 
much to say of the Tylwyth. Teg. , or fair family, and many believe 
in them.” 

“ And do you believe in them ? ” said I. 

“I scarcely know what to say. Wise and good men have 
been of opinion that they are nothing but devils, who, under the 
form of pretty and amiable spirits, would fain allure poor human 
beings ; I see nothing irrational in the supposition.” 

“ Do you believe in devils, then ? ” 

“Do I believe in devils, young man ! ” said Peter, and his 
frame was shaken as if by convulsions. “If I do not believe in 
devils, why am I here at the present moment ? ” 

“ You know best,” said I ; “ but I don’t believe that fairies are 
devils, and I don’t wish to hear them insulted. What learned 
men have said they are devils?” 

“ Many have said it, young man, and, amongst others, Master 
Ellis Wyn, in that wonderful book of his, the Bardd Cwsg.” 

“ The Bardd Cwsg" said I ; “ what kind of book is that ? I 
have never heard of that book before.” 

“ Heard of it before ; I suppose not ; how should you have 
heard of it before ! By-the-bye, can you read ? ” 


1825.] 


THE SLEEPING BARD. 


405 


“Very tolerably,” said I; “so there are fairies in this book. 
What do you call it — the Bardd Cwsg 1 ” 

“Yes, the Bardd Cwsg. You pronounce Welsh very fairly; 
have you ever been in Wales?” 

“ Never,” said I. 

“ Not been in Wales ; then, of course, you don’t understand 
Welsh ; but we were talking of the Bardd Cwsg — yes, there are 
fairies in the Bardd Cwsg — the author of it, Master Ellis Wyn, 
was carried away in his sleep by them over mountains and valleys, 
rivers and great waters, incurring mighty perils at their hands, till 
he was rescued from them by an angel of the Most High, who 
subsequently showed him many wonderful things.” 

“I beg your pardon,” said I, “but what were those wonderful 
things? ” 

“I see, young man,” said Peter, smiling, “that you are not 
without curiosity ; but I can easily pardon anyone for being 
curious about the wonders contained in the book of Master Ellis 
Wyn. The angel showed him the course of this world, its pomps 
and vanities, its cruelty and its pride, its crimes and deceits. 
On another occasion, the angel showed him Death in his nether 
palace, surrounded by his grisly ministers, and by those who are 
continually falling victims to his power. And, on a third occasion, 
the state of the condemned in their place of everlasting torment.” 

“ But this was all in his sleep,” said I, “ was it not? ” 

“ Yes,” said Peter, “ in his sleep ; and on that account the 
book is called Gweledigaethau y Bardd Cwsg , or, Visions of the 
Sleeping Bard.” 

“I do not care for wonders which occur in sleep,” said I. 
“ I prefer real ones ; and perhaps, notwithstanding what he says, 
the man had no visions at all — they are probably of his own 
invention.” 

“They are substantially true, young man,” said Peter; “like 
the. dreams of Bunyan, they are founded on three tremendous 
facts, Sin, Death, and Hell ; and like his they have done incalcul- 
able good, at least in my own country, in the language in which 
they are written. Many a guilty conscience has the Bardd Cwsg 
aroused with its dreadful sights, its strong sighs, its puffs of smoke 
from the pit, and its showers of sparks from the mouth of the yet 
lower gulf of [the deep] Unknown. Were it not for the Bardd 
Cwsg perhaps I might not be here.” 

“ I would sooner hear your own tale,” said I, “ than all the 
visions of the Bardd Cwsg." 

Peter shook, bent his form nearly double, and covered his face 


406 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


with his hands. I sat still and motionless, with my eyes fixed 
upon him. Presently Winifred descended the hill, and joined us. 
“What is the matter?” said she, looking at her husband, who 
still remained in the posture I have described. He made no 
answer; whereupon, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, 
she said, in the peculiar soft and tender tone which I had heard 
her use on a former occasion, “Take comfort, Peter; what has 
happened now to afflict thee ? ” Peter removed his hands from 
his face. “ The old pain, the old pain,” said he ; “I was talking 
with this young man, and he would fain know what brought me 
here, he would fain hear my tale, Winifred — my sin : O pechod 
Ysprydd Gian I O pechod Ysprydd Gian ! ” and the poor man 
fell into a more fearful agony than before. Tears trickled down 
Winifred’s face ; I saw them trickling by the moonlight, as she 
gazed upon the writhing form of her afflicted husband. I arose 
from my seat; “ I am the cause of all this,” said I, “ by my folly 
and imprudence, and it is thus I have returned your kindness and 
hospitality ; I will depart from you and wander my way.” I was 
retiring, but Peter sprang up and detained me. “Go not,” said 
he, “ you were not in fault ; if there be any fault in the case, it 
was mine ; if I suffer, I am but paying the penalty of my own 
iniquity ; ” he then paused, and appeared to be considering : at 
length he said, “ Many things which thou hast seen and heard 
connected with me require explanation ; thou wishest to know my 
tale, I will tell it thee, but not now, not to-night ; I am too much 
shaken ”. 

Two evenings later, when we were again seated beneath the 
oak, Peter took the hand of his wife in his own, and then, in 
tones broken and almost inarticulate, commenced telling me his 
tale — the tale of the Pechod Ysprydd Gian. 


CHAPTER LXXV. 


“ I was born in the heart of North Wales, the son of a respect- 
able farmer, and am the youngest of seven brothers. 

“ My father was a member of the Church of England, and 
was what is generally called a serious man. He went to church 
regularly, and read the Bible every Sunday evening ; in his 
moments of leisure he was fond of holding religious discourse 
both with his family and his neighbours. 

“ One autumn afternoon, on a week day, my father sat with 
one of his neighbours taking a cup of ale by the oak table in our 
stone kitchen. I sat near them, and listened to their discourse. 
I was at that time seven years of age. They were talking of 
religious matters. ‘ It is a hard matter to get to heaven,’ said 
my father. ‘ Exceedingly so,’ said the other. * However, I don’t 
despond, none need despair of getting to heaven, save those who 
have committed the sin against the Holy Ghost.’ 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ said my father, ‘ thank God I never committed that 
— how awful must be the state of a person who has committed 
the sin against the Holy Ghost ! I can scarcely think of it with- 
out my hair standing on end ; ’ and then my father and his 
friend began talking of the nature of the sin against the Holy 
Ghost, and I heard them say what it was, as I sat with greedy 
ears listening to their discourse. 

“ I lay awake the greater part of the night musing upon what 
I had heard. I kept wondering to myself what must be the state 
of a person who had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost, 
and how he must feel. Once or twice I felt a strong inclination 
to commit it — a strange kind of fear, however, prevented me ; at 
last I determined not to commit it, and having said my prayers, 
I fell asleep. 

“ When I awoke in the morning the first thing I thought of 
was the mysterious sin, and a voice within me seemed to say, 

‘ Commit it ’ ; and I felt a strong temptation to do so, even 
stronger than in the night. I was just about to yield, when the 
same dread, of which I have already spoken, came over me, and, 


408 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825- 


springing out of bed, I went down on my knees. I slept in a 
small room alone, to which I ascended by a wooden stair, open 
to the sky. I have often thought since that it is not a good 
thing for children to sleep alone. 

“ After breakfast I went to school, and endeavoured to em- 
ploy myself upon my tasks, but all in vain ; I could think of 
nothing but the sin against the Holy Ghost ; my eyes, instead of 
being fixed upon my book, wandered in vacancy. My master 
observed my inattention, and chid me. The time came for say- 
ing my task, and I had not acquired it. My master reproached 
me, and, yet more, he beat me ; I felt shame and anger, and I 
went home with a full determination to commit the sin against 
the Holy Ghost. 

“ But when I got home my father ordered me to do some- 
thing connected with the farm, so that I was compelled to exert 
myself ; I was occupied till night, and was so busy that I almost 
forgot the sin and my late resolution. My work completed, I 
took my supper, and went to my room ; I began my prayers, and, 
when they were ended, I thought of the sin, but the temptation 
was slight ; I felt very tired, and was presently asleep. 

“ Thus, you see, I had plenty of time allotted me by a 
gracious and kind God to reflect on what I was about to do. 
He did not permit the enemy of souls to take me by surprise, 
and to hurry me at once into the commission of that which was 
to be my ruin here and hereafter. Whatever I did was of my 
own free will, after I had had time to reflect. Thus God is 
justified ; He had no hand in my destruction, but, on the con- 
trary, He did all that was compatible with justice to prevent it. 
I hasten to the fatal moment. Awaking in the night, I deter- 
mined that nothing should prevent my committing the sin. 
Arising from my bed, I went out upon the wooden gallery, and 
having stood for a few moments looking at the stars, with which 
the heavens were thickly strewn, I laid myself down, and support- 
ing my face with my hand, I murmured out words of horror — 
words not to be repeated — and in this manner I committed the 
sin against the Holy Ghost. 

“ When the words were uttered I sat up upon the topmost 
step of the gallery ; for some time I felt stunned in somewhat 
the same manner as I once subsequently felt after being stung 
by an adder. I soon arose, however, and retired to my bed, 
where, notwithstanding what I had done, I was not slow in fall- 
ing asleep. 

“ I awoke several times during the night, each time with the 


1825.] 


PETER’S STORY. 


409 


dim idea that something strange and monstrous had occurred, 
but presently I fell asleep again ; in the morning I awoke with 
the same vague feeling, but presently recollection returned, and 
I remembered that I had committed the sin against the Holy 
Ghost. I lay musing for some time on what I had done, and I 
felt rather stunned, as before ; at last I arose and got out of bed, 
dressed myself, and then went down on my knees, and was about 
to pray from the force of mechanical habit ; before I said a word, 
however, I recollected myself, and got up again. What was the 
use of praying ? I thought ; I had committed the sin against the 
Holy Ghost. 

“ I went to school, but sat stupefied. I was again chidden, 
again beaten by my master. I felt no anger this time, and 
scarcely heeded the strokes. I looked, however, at my master’s 
face, and thought to myself, you are beating me for being idle, 
as you suppose ; poor man, what would you do if you knew I 
had committed the sin against the Holy Ghost ? 

“ Days and weeks passed by. I had once been cheerful, and 
fond of the society of children of my own age ; but I was now 
reserved and gloomy. It seemed to me that a gulf separated me 
from all my fellow-creatures. I used to look at my brothers and 
schoolfellows, and think how different I was from them ; they 
had not done what I had. I seemed, in my own eyes, a lone, 
monstrous being, and yet, strange to say, I felt a kind of pride 
in being so. I was unhappy, but I frequently thought to myself, 
I have done what no one else would dare to do ; there was some- 
thing grand in the idea ; I had yet to learn the horror of my 
condition. 

“ rime passed on, and I began to think less of what I had 
done ; I began once more to take pleasure in my childish sports ; 
I was active, and excelled at football and the like all the lads of 
my age. I likewise began, what I had never done before, to take 
pleasure in the exercises of the school. I made great progress 
in Welsh and English grammar, and learnt to construe Latin. 
My master no longer chid or beat me, but one day told my father 
that he had no doubt that one day I should be an honour to 
Wales. 

“Shortly after this my father fell sick; the progress of the 
disorder was rapid; feeling his end approaching, he called his 
children before him. After tenderly embracing us, he said : ‘ God 
bless you, my children ; I am going from you, but take comfort, 
I trust that we shall all meet again in heaven \ 

“ As he uttered these last words, horror took entire possession 


4 io 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


of me. Meet my father in heaven — how could I ever hope to 
meet him there? I looked wildly at my brethren and at my 
mother ; they were all bathed in tears, but how I envied them ! 
They might hope to meet my father in heaven, but how different 
were they from me — they had never committed the unpardonable 
sin. 

“ In a few days my father died ; he left his family in comfort- 
able circumstances, at least such as would be considered so in 
Wales, where the wants of the people are few. My elder brother 
carried on the farm for the benefit of my mother and us all. In 
course of time my brothers were put out to various trades. I 
still remained at school, but without being a source of expense to 
my relations, as I was by this time able to assist my master in 
the business of the school. 

“ I was diligent both in self-improvement and in the instruction 
of others ; nevertheless, a horrible weight pressed upon my breast ; 
I knew I was a lost being ; that for me there was no hope ; that, 
though all others might be saved, I must of necessity be lost : I 
had committed the unpardonable sin, for which I was doomed to 
eternal punishment, in the flaming gulf, as soon as life was over ! — 
and how long could I hope to live? perhaps fifty years, at the 
end of which I must go to my place ; and then I would count 
the months and the days, nay, even the hours which yet inter- 
vened between me and my doom. Sometimes I would comfort 
myself with the idea that a long time would elapse before my 
time would be out ; but then again I thought that, however long 
the term might be, it must be out at last ; and then I would fall 
into an agony, during which I would almost wish that the term 
were out, and that I were in my place; the horrors of which I 
thought could scarcely be worse than what I then endured. 

“There was one thought about this time which caused me 
unutterable grief and shame, perhaps more shame than grief. It 
was that my father, who was gone to heaven, and was there daily 
holding communion with his God, was by this time aware of my 
crime. I imagined him looking down from the clouds upon his 
wretched son, with a countenance of inexpressible horror. When 
this idea was upon me, I would often rush to some secret place 
to hide myself — to some thicket, where I would cast myself on the 
ground, and thrust my head into a thick bush, in order to escape 
from the horror-struck glance of my father above in the clouds ; 
and there I would continue groaning till the agony had, in some 
degree, passed away. 

“The wretchedness of my state increasing daily, it at last 


PETER’S STORY. 


1825.] 


411 


became apparent to the master of the school, who questioned me 
earnestly and affectionately. I, however, gave him no satisfactory 
answer, being apprehensive that, if I unbosomed myself, I should 
become as much an object of horror to him as I had long been 
to myself. At length he suspected that I was unsettled in my 
intellects; and, fearing probably the ill effect of my presence 
upon his scholars, he advised me to go home — which I was glad 
to do, as I felt myself every day becoming less qualified for the 
duties of the office which I had undertaken. 

“ So I returned home to my mother and my brother, who 
received me with the greatest kindness and affection. I now 
determined to devote myself to husbandry, and assist my brother 
in the business of the farm. I was still, however, very much 
distressed. One fine morning, however, as I was at work in the 
field, and the birds were carolling around me, a ray of hope 
began to break upon my poor dark soul. I looked at the earth, 
and looked at the sky, and felt as I had not done for many a year; 
presently a delicious feeling stole over me. I was beginning to 
enjoy existence. I shall never forget that hour. I flung myself 
on the soil, and kissed it ; then, springing up with a sudden 
impulse, I rushed into the depths of a neighbouring wood, and, 
falling upon my knees, did what I had not done for a long time — 
prayed to God. 

“ A change, an entire change, seemed to have come over me. 

I was no longer gloomy and despairing, but gay and happy. My 
slumbers were light and easy ; not disturbed, as before, by 
frightful dreams. I arose with the lark, and like him uttered a 
cheerful song of praise to God, frequently and earnestly, and was 
particularly cautious not to do anything which I considered might 
cause His displeasure. 

“ At church I was constant, and when there listened with 
deepest attention to every word which proceeded from the mouth 
of the minister. In a little time it appeared to me that I had 
become a good, very good young man. At times the recollection 
of the sin would return, and I would feel a momentary chill ; but 
the thought quickly vanished, and I again felt happy and secure. 

“One Sunday morning, after I had said my prayers, I felt 
particularly joyous. I thought of the innocent and virtuous life 
I was leading ; and when the recollection of the sin intruded for 
a moment, I said, ‘ I am sure God will never utterly cast away 
so good a creature as myself’. I went to church, and was as 
usual attentive. The subject of the sermon was on the duty of 
searching the Scriptures : all I knew of them was from the 


412 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


Liturgy. I now, however, determined to read them, and perfect 
the good work which I had begun. My father’s Bible was upon 
the shelf, and on that evening I took it with me to my chamber. 
I placed it on the table, and sat down. My heart was filled with 
pleasing anticipation. I opened the book at random, and began 
to read ; the first passage on which my eyes lighted was the 
following : — 

“ ‘ He who committeth the sin against the Holy Ghost shall 
not be forgiven, either in this world or the next 

Here Peter was seized with convulsive tremors. Winifred 
sobbed violently. I got up, and went away. Returning in about 
a quarter of an hour, I found him more calm ; he motioned me 
to sit down ; and, after a short pause, continued his narration. 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 


“Where was I, young man? Oh, I remember, at the fatal 
passage which removed all hope. I will not dwell on what I felt. 
I closed my eyes, and wished that I might be dreaming ; but it 
was no dream, but a terrific reality. I will not dwell on that 
period, I should only shock you. I could not bear my feelings ; 
so, bidding my friends a hasty farewell, I abandoned myself to 
horror and despair, and ran wild through Wales, climbing moun- 
tains and wading streams. 

“ Climbing mountains and wading streams, I ran wild about ; 
I was burnt by the sun, drenched by the rain, and had frequently 
at night no other covering than the sky, or the humid roof of some 
cave. But nothing seemed to affect my constitution ; probably 
the fire which burned within me counteracted what I suffered 
from without. During the space of three years I scarcely knew 
what befel me ; my life was a dream — a wild, horrible dream ; 
more than once I believe I was in the hands of robbers, and once 
in the hands of gypsies. I liked the last description of people 
least of all ; I could not abide their yellow faces, or their ceaseless 
clabber. Escaping from these beings whose countenances and 
godless discourse brought to my mind the demons of the deep 
Unknown, I still ran wild through Wales, I know not how long. 
On one occasion, coming in some degree to my recollection, 
I felt myself quite unable to bear the horrors of my situation ; 
looking round I found myself near the sea; instantly the idea came 
into my head that I would cast myself into it, and thus anticipate 
my final doom. I hesitated a moment, but a voice within me 
seemed to tell me that I could do no better ; the sea was near, 
and I could not swim, so I determined to fling myself into the 
sea. As I was running along at great speed, in the direction of a 
lofty rock, which beetled over the waters, I suddenly felt myself 
seized by the coat. I strove to tear myself away, but in vain ; 
looking round, I perceived a venerable, hale old man, who had 
hold of me. ‘ Let me go ! ’ said I fiercely. ‘ I will not let thee go/ 
said the old man ; and now, instead of with one, he grappled me 


4 H 


LA VENGRO. 


[ 1825 - 


with both hands. ‘ In whose name dost thou detain me ? ’ said I, 
scarcely knowing what I said. ‘ In the name of my Master, who 
made thee and yonder sea, and has said to the sea, so far shalt 
thou come, and no farther, and to thee, thou shalt do no murder.’ 
‘ Has not a man a right to do what he pleases with his own ? ’ 
said I. ‘ He has/ said the old man, ‘ but thy life is not thy own ; 
thou art accountable for it to thy God. Nay, I will not let thee 
go/ he continued, as I again struggled ; ‘ if thou struggle with me 
the whole day I will not let thee go, as Charles Wesley says in 
his Wrestlings of Jacob ; and see, it is of no use struggling, for 
I am, in the strength of my Master, stronger than thou ; ’ and, 
indeed, all of a sudden I had become very weak and exhausted ; 
whereupon the old man, beholding my situation, took me by the 
arm and led me gently to a neighbouring town, which stood 
behind a hill, and which I had not before observed ; presently he 
opened the door of a respectable-looking house, which stood 
beside a large building having the appearance of a chapel, and 
conducted me into a small room, with a great many books in it. 
Having caused me to sit down, he stood looking at me for some 
time, occasionally heaving a sigh. I was, indeed, haggard and 
forlorn. ‘Who art thou?’ he said at last. ‘ A miserable man/ 
I replied. ‘What makes thee miserable?’ said the old man. 

‘ A hideous crime,’ I replied. ‘ I can find no rest; like Cain, I 
wander here and there.’ The old man turned pale. ‘ Hast thou 
taken another’s life? ’ said he ; ‘if so, I advise thee to surrender 
thyself to the magistrate ; thou canst do no better ; thy doing so 
will be the best proof of thy repentance ; and though there be no 
hope for thee in this world there may be much in the next.’ ‘ No,’ 
said I, ‘ I have never taken another’s life.’ ‘ What then, another’s 
goods ? If so, restore them seven-fold if possible : or, if it be 
not in thy power, and thy conscience accuse thee, surrender thyself 
to the magistrate, and make the only satisfaction thou art able.’ 

‘ I have taken no one’s goods,’ said I. ‘Of what art thou guilty, 
then ? ’ said he. ‘ Art thou a drunkard ? a profligate ? ’ ‘ Alas, no,’ 
said I ; ‘lam neither of these ; would that I were no worse ! ’ 

“ Thereupon the old man looked steadfastly at me for some 
time ; then, after appearing to reflect, he said : ‘ Young man, I 
have a great desire to know your name ’. ‘ What matters it to 

you what is my name ? ’ said I ; ‘ you know nothing of me.’ 
‘Perhaps you are mistaken,’ said the old man, looking kindly 
at me; ‘but at all events tell me your name.’ I hesitated a 
moment, and then told him who I was, whereupon he exclaimed 
with much emotion, ‘ I thought so ; how wonderful are the ways 


PETER’S STORY . 


415 


1825.] 


of Providence ! I have heard of thee, young man, and know thy 
mother well. Only a month ago, when upon a journey, I experi- 
enced much kindness from her. She was speaking to me of her 
lost child, with tears ; she told me that you were one of the best of 
sons, but that some strange idea appeared to have occupied your 
mind. Despair not, my son. If thou hast been afflicted, I doubt 
not but that thy affliction will eventually turn out to thy benefit ; I 
doubt not but that thou wilt be preserved, as an example of the 
great mercy of God. I will now kneel down and pray for thee, 
my son.’ 

“ He knelt down, and prayed long and fervently. I remained 
standing for some time; at length I knelt down likewise. I 
scarcely knew what he was saying, but when he concluded I said 
‘ Amen ’. 

“ And when we had risen from our knees, the old man left me 
for a short time, and on his return led me into another room, 
where were two females ; one was an elderly person, the wife of 
the old man, the other was a young woman of very prepossessing 
appearance (hang not down thy head, Winifred), who I soon 
found was a distant relation of the old man. Both received me 
with great kindness, the old man having doubtless previously told 
them who I was. 

“ I staid several days in the good man’s house. I had still 
the greater portion of a small sum which I happened to have 
about me when I departed on my dolorous wandering, and with 
this I purchased clothes, and altered my appearance considerably. 
On the evening of the second day, my friend said : ‘I am going 
to preach, perhaps you will come and hear me ’. I consented, 
and we all went, not to a church, but to the large building next 
the house ; for the old man, though a clergyman, was not of the 
established persuasion, and there the old man mounted a pulpit, 
and began to preach. ‘ Come unto Me, all ye that labour and 
are heavy laden,’ etc., etc., was his text. His sermon was long, 
but I still bear the greater portion of it in my mind. 

“The substance of it was that Jesus was at all times ready to 
take upon Himself the burden of our sins, provided we came to 
Him with a humble and contrite spirit, and begged His help. 
This doctrine was new to me ; I had often been at church, but 
had never heard it preached before, at least so distinctly. When 
he said that all men might be saved, I shook, for I expected he 
would add, all except those who had committed the mysterious 
sin ; but no, all men were to be saved who with a humble and 
contrite spirit would come to Jesus, cast themselves at the foot 


416 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


of His cross, and accept pardon through the merits of His blood- 
shedding alone. ‘ Therefore, my friends,’ said he, in conclusion, 

‘ despair not — however guilty you may be, despair not — however 
desperate your condition may seem,’ said he, fixing his eyes upon 
me, 4 despair not. There is nothing more foolish and more 
wicked than despair ; overweening confidence is not more foolish 
than despair; both are the favourite weapons of the enemy of 
souls.’ 

“ This discourse gave rise in my mind to no slight perplexity. 
I had read in the Scriptures that he who committeth a certain sin 
shall never be forgiven, and that there is no hope for him either 
in this world or the next. And here was a man, a good man 
certainly, and one who, of necessity, was thoroughly acquainted 
with the Scriptures, who told me that any one might be forgiven, 
however wicked, who would only trust in Christ and in the merits 
of His blood-shedding. Did I believe in Christ ? Ay, truly. 
Was I willing to be saved by Christ? Ay, truly. Did I trust in 
Christ? I trusted that Christ would save every one but myself. 
And why not myself? simply because the Scriptures had told me 
that he who has committed the sin against the Holy Ghost can 
never be saved, and I had committed the sin against the Holy 
Ghost — perhaps the only one who ever had committed it. How 
could I hope? The Scriptures could not lie, and yet here was 
this good old man, profoundly versed in the Scriptures, who bade 
me hope; would he lie? No. But did the old man know my 
case? Ah, no, he did not know my case! but yet he had bid 
me hope, whatever I had done, provided I would go to Jesus. 
But how could I think of going to Jesus, when the Scriptures 
told me plainly that all would be useless ? I was perplexed, and 
yet a ray of hope began to dawn in my soul. I thought of con- 
sulting the good man, but I was afraid he would drive away the 
small glimmer. I was afraid he would say, ‘ Oh, yes, every one is 
to be saved, except a wretch like you ; I was not aware before 
that there was anything so horrible — begone ! ’ Once or twice 
the old man questioned me on the subject of my misery, but I 
evaded him ; once, indeed, when he looked particularly benevo- 
lent, I think I should have unbosomed myself to him, but we 
were interrupted. He never pressed me much ; perhaps he was 
delicate in probing my mind, as we were then of different 
persuasions. Hence he advised me to seek the advice of some 
powerful minister in my own church ; there were many such in 
it, he said. 

“ I staid several days in the family, during which time I more 


1825.] 


PETER'S STORY. 


4i7 


than once heard my venerable friend preach; each time he 
preached he exhorted his hearers not to despair. The whole 
family were kind to me ; his wife frequently discoursed with me, 
and also the young person to whom I have already alluded. It 
appeared to me that the latter took a peculiar interest in my 
fate. 

“ At last my friend said to me : ‘ It is now time thou shouldst 
return to thy mother and thy brother ’. So I arose, and departed 
to my mother and my brother ; and at my departure my old friend 
gave me his blessing, and his wife and the young person shed 
tears, the last especially. And when my mother saw me, she 
shed tears, and fell on my neck and kissed me, and my brother 
took me by the hand and bade me welcome ; and when our first 
emotions were subsided, my mother said : 1 1 trust thou art come 
in a lucky hour. A few weeks ago my cousin (whose favourite 
thou always wast) died and left thee his heir — left thee the goodly 
farm in which he lived. I trust, my son, that thou wilt now settle, 
and be a comfort to me in my old days.’ And I answered : ‘ I 
will, if so please the Lord ’ ; and I said to myself, ‘ God grant that 
this bequest be a token of the Lord’s favour \ 

“ And in a few days I departed to take possession of my farm ; 
it was about twenty miles from my mother’s house, in a beautiful 
but rather wild district ; I arrived at the fall of the leaf. All day 
long I busied myself with my farm, and thus kept my mind em- 
ployed. At night, however, I felt rather solitary, and I frequently 
wished for a companion. Each night and morning I prayed fer- 
vently unto the Lord ; for His hand had been very heavy upon 
me, and I feared Him. 

V There was one thing connected with my new abode, which 
gave me considerable uneasiness — the want of spiritual instruction. 
There was a church, indeed, close at hand, in which service was 
occasionally performed, but in so hurried and heartless a manner 
that I derived little benefit from it. The clergyman to whom the 
benefice belonged was a valetudinarian, who passed his time in 
London, or at some watering-place, entrusting the care of his 
flock to the curate of a distant parish, who gave himself very 
little trouble about the matter. Now, I wanted every Sunday to 
hear from the pulpit words of consolation and encouragement, 
similar to those which I had heard uttered from the pulpit by my 
good and venerable friend, but I was debarred from this privilege. 
At length, one day being in conversation with one of my labourers, 
a staid and serious man, I spoke to him of the matter which lay 
heavy upon my mind ; whereupon, looking me wistfully in the 

27 


418 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


face, he said : ‘ Master, the want of religious instruction in my 
church was what drove me to the Methodists \ $ The Metho- 
dists,’ said I ; ‘are there any in these parts ? ’ ‘ There is a chapel,’ 

said he, ‘ only half a mile distant, at which there are two services 
every Sunday, and other two during the week.’ Now, it happened 
that my venerable friend was of the Methodist persuasion, and 
when I heard the poor man talk in this manner, I said to him : 
‘ May I go with you next Sunday ? ’ ‘ Why not ? ’ said he ; so I 

went with the labourer on the ensuing Sabbath to the meeting of 
the Methodists. 

“ I liked the preaching which I heard at the chapel very well, 
though it was not quite so comfortable as that of my old friend, 
the preacher being in some respects a different kind of man. It, 
however, did me good, and I went again, and continued to do so, 
though I did not become a regular member of the body at that 
time. 

“ I had now the benefit of religious instruction, and also to a 
certain extent of religious fellowship, for the preacher and various 
members of his flock frequently came to see me. They were 
honest, plain men, not exactly of the description which I wished 
for, but still good sort of people, and I was glad to see them. 
Once on a time, when some of them were with me, one of them 
inquired whether I was fervent in prayer. ‘ Very fervent,’ said I. 
' And do you read the Scriptures often?’ said he. ‘ No,’ said I. 

‘ Why not? ’ said he. ‘ Because I am afraid to see there my own 
condemnation.’ They looked at each other, and said nothing at 
the time. On leaving me, however, they all advised me to read 
the Scriptures with fervency and prayer. 

“As I had told these honest people, I shrank from searching 
the Scriptures; the remembrance of the fatal passage was still 
too vivid in my mind to permit me. I did not wish to see my 
condemnation repeated, but I was very fervent in prayer, and 
almost hoped that God would yet forgive me by virtue of the 
blood-shedding of the Lamb. Time passed on, my affairs pros- 
pered, and I enjoyed a certain portion of tranquillity. Occasion- 
ally, when I had nothing else to do, I renewed my studies. Many 
is the book I read, especially in my native language, for I was 
always fond of my native language, and proud of being a Welsh- 
man. Amongst the books I read were the odes of the great Ab 
Gwilym, whom thou, friend, hast never heard of; no, nor any of 
thy countrymen, for you are an ignorant race, you Saxons, at 
least with respect to all that relates to Wales and Welshmen. 
1 likewise read the book of Master Ellis Wyn. The latter work 


1825.] 


PETER’S STORY. 


419 


possessed a singular fascination for me, on account of its wonder 
ful delineations of the torments of the nether world. 

“ But man does not love to be alone ; indeed, the Scripture 
says that it is not good for man to be alone. I occupied my 
body with the pursuits of husbandry, and I improved my mind 
with the perusal of good and wise books ; but, as I have already 
said, I frequently sighed for a companion with whom I could 
exchange ideas, and who could take an interest in my pursuits ; 
the want of such a one I more particularly felt in the long winter 
evenings. It was then that the image of the young person whom 
I had seen in the house of the preacher frequently rose up distinctly 
before my mind’s eye, decked with quiet graces — hang not down 
your head, Winifred — and I thought that of all the women in the 
world I should wish her to be my partner, and then I considered 
whether it would be possible to obtain her. I am ready to ac- 
knowledge, friend, that it was both selfish and wicked in me to 
wish to fetter any human being to a lost creature like myself, 
conscious of having committed a crime for which the Scriptures 
told me there is no pardon. I had, indeed, a long struggle as to 
whether I should make the attempt or not — selfishness, however, 
prevailed. I will not detain your attention with relating all that 
occurred at this period — suffice it to say that I made my suit and 
was successful ; it is true that the old man, who was her guardian, 
hesitated, and asked several questions respecting my state of 
mind. I am afraid that I partly deceived him, perhaps he 
partly deceived himself ; he was pleased that I had adopted his 
profession — we are all weak creatures. With respect to the young 
person, she did not ask many questions ; and I soon found that I 
had won her heart. To be brief, I married her ; and here she is, 
the truest wife that ever man had, and the kindest. Kind I may 
well call her, seeing that she shrinks not from me, who so cruelly 
deceived her, in not telling her at first what I was. I married 
her, friend, and brought her home to my little possession, where 
we passed our time very agreeably. Our affairs prospered, our 
garners were full, and there was coin in our purse. I worked in 
the field ; Winifred busied herself with the dairy. At night I 
frequently read books to her, books of my own country, friend ; 
I likewise read to her songs of my own, holy songs and carols 
which she admired, and which yourself would perhaps admire, 
could you understand them ; but I repeat, you Saxons are an 
ignorant people with respect to us, and a perverse, inasmuch as 
you despise Welsh without understanding it. Every night I 
prayed fervently, and my wife admired my gift of prayer. 


420 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“ One night, after I had been reading to my wife a portion of 
Ellis Wyn, my wife said : ‘ This is a wonderful book, and contain- 
ing much true and pleasant doctrine ; but how is it that you, who 
are so fond of good books, and good things in general, never read 
the Bible ? You read me the book of Master Ellis Wyn, you read 
me sweet songs of your own composition, you edify me with your 
gift of prayer, but yet you never read the Bible.’ And when I 
heard her mention the Bible I shook, for I thought of my own 
condemnation. However, I dearly loved my wife, and as she 
pressed me, I commenced on that very night reading the Bible. 
All went on smoothly for a long time ; for months and months I 
did not find the fatal passage, so that I almost thought that I had 
imagined it. My affairs prospered much the while, so that I was 
almost happy, taking pleasure in everything around me, — in my 
wife, in my farm, my books and compositions, and the Welsh 
language; till one night, as I was reading the Bible, feeling 
particularly comfortable, a thought having just come into my head 
that I would print some of my compositions, and purchase a 
particular field of a neighbour — oh, God — God ! I came to the 
fatal passage. 

“Friend, friend, what shall I say? I rushed out. My wife 
followed me, asking me what was .the matter. I could only 
answer with groans — for three days and three nights I did little 
else than groan. Oh, the kindness and solicitude of my wife! 

‘ What is the matter, husband, dear husband ? * she was continu- 
ally saying. I became at last more calm. My wife still persisted 
in asking me the cause of my late paroxysm. It is hard to keep 
a secret from a wife, especially such a wife as mine, so I told my 
wife the tale, as we sat one night — it was a mid-winter night — 
over the dying brands of our hearth, after the family'had retired to 
rest, her hand locked in mine, even as it is now. 

“ I thought she would have shrunk from me with horror; but 
she did not; her hand, it is true, trembled once or twice; but 
that was all. At last she gave mine a gentle pressure ; and, 
looking up in my face, she said — what do you think my wife said, 
young man ? ” 

“ It is impossible for me to guess,” said I. 

“ ‘ Let us go to rest, my love ; your fears are all groundless .’ v 


Chapter lxxvii. 


“ And so I still say,” said Winifred, sobbing. “ Let us retire to 
rest, dear husband ; your fears are groundless. I had hoped long 
since that your affliction would have passed away, and I still hope 
that it eventually will ; so take heart, Peter, and let us retire to 
rest, for it is getting late.” 

“ Rest ! ” said Peter ; “ there is no rest for the wicked ! ” 

“ We are all wicked,” said Winifred ; “ but you are afraid of a 
shadow. How often have I told you that the sin of your heart is 
not the sin against the Holy Ghost : the sin of your heart is its 
natural pride, of which you are scarcely aware, to keep down 
which God in His mercy permitted you to be terrified with the 
idea of having committed a sin which you never committed.” 

“Then you will still maintain,” said Peter, “that I never 
committed the sin against the Holy Spirit ? ” 

“I will,” said Winifred; “you never committed it. How 
should a child seven years old commit a sin like that ? ” 

“Have I not read my own condemnation?” said Peter. 
“Did not the first words which I read in the Holy Scripture 
condemn me ? * He who committeth the sin against the Holy 

Ghost shall never enter into the kingdom of God.’ ” 

“You never committed it,” said Winifred. 

“ But the words ! the words ! the words ! ” said Peter. 

“The words are true words,” said Winifred, sobbing; “but 
they were not meant for you, but for those who have broken their 
profession, who, having embraced the cross, have receded from 
their Master.” 

“And what sayest thou to the effect which the words produced 
upon me?” said Peter. “Did they not cause me to run wild 
t through Wales for years, like Merddin Wyllt of yore ? Thinkest 
thou that I opened the book at that particular passage by chance ? ” 
“No,” said Winifred, “not by chance; it was the hand of 
God directed you, doubtless for some wise purpose. You had 
become satisfied with yourself. The Lord wished to rouse thee 
from thy state of carnal security, and therefore directed your eyes 
to that fearful passage.” 

“ Does the Lord then carry out His designs by means of 
guile?” said Peter, with a groan. “Is not the Lord true? 

(421) 


422 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


Would the Lord impress upon me that I had committed a sin 
of which I am guiltless? Hush, Winifred ! hush ! thou knowest 
that I have committed the sin.” 

“ Thou hast not committed it,” said Winifred, sobbing yet 
more violently. “ Were they my last words, I would persist that 
thou hast not committed it, though, perhaps, thou wouldst, but 
for this chastening ; it was not to convince thee that thou hast 
committed the sin, but rather to prevent thee from committing 
it, that the Lord brought that passage before thy eyes. He is 
not to blame, if thou art wilfully blind to the truth and wisdom 
of His ways.” 

“ I see thou wouldst comfort me,” said Peter, “as thou hast 
often before attempted to do. I would fain ask the young man 
his opinion.” 

“ I have not yet heard the whole of your history,” said I. 

“My story is nearly told,” said Peter; “a few words will 
complete it. My wife endeavoured to console and reassure me, 
using the arguments which you have just heard her use, and many 
others, but in vain. Peace nor comfort came to my breast. I 
was rapidly falling into the depths of despair, when one day 
Winifred said to me : £ I see thou wilt be lost if we remain here. 
One resource only remains. Thou must go forth, my husband, 
into the wide world, and to comfort thee I will go with thee.’ 
'And what can I do in the wide world?’ said I, despondingly. 
‘Much,’ replied Winifred, ‘if you will but exert yourself; much 
good canst thou do with the blessing of God.’ Many things 
of the same kind she said to me ; and at last I arose from the 
earth to which God had smitten me, and disposed of my property 
in the best way I could, and went into the world. We did all the 
good we were able, visiting the sick, ministering to the sick, and 
praying with the sick. At last I became celebrated as the possessor 
of a great gift of prayer. And people urged me to preach, and 
Winifred urged me too, and at last I consented, and I preached. 
I — I — outcast Peter, became the preacher, Peter Williams. I, the 
lost one, attempted to show others the right road. And in this way 
I. have gone on for thirteen years, preaching and teaching, visiting 
the sick, and ministering to them, with Winifred by my side 
hearkening me on. Occasionally I am visited with fits of inde- 
scribable agony, generally on the night before the Sabbath ; for I 
then ask myself, how dare I, the outcast, attempt to preach the 
word of God ? Young man, my tale is told ; you seem in thought I ” 

“ I am thinking of London Bridge,” said I. 

“ Of London Bridge ! ” said Peter and his wife. 

“ Yes,” said I, “ of London Bridge. I am indebted for much 


1825.] 


THE COMFORTER COMFORTED. 


423 


wisdom to London Bridge ; it was there that I completed my 
studies. But to the point. I was once reading on London 
Bridge a book which an ancient gentlewoman, who kept the 
bridge, was in the habit of lending me; and there I found 
written, * Each one carries in his breast the recollection of some 
sin which presses heavy upon him. O ! if men could but look 
into each other’s hearts, what blackness would they find there ! ’ ” 
“ That’s true,” said Peter. “ What is the name of the book ? ” 
“ The Life of Blessed Mary Flanders .” 

“ Some popish saint, I suppose,” said Peter. 

“As much of a saint, I dare say,” said I, “as most popish 
ones; but you interrupted me. One part of your narrative 
brought the passage which I have quoted into my mind. You 
said that after you had committed this same sin of yours you 
were in the habit, at school, of looking upon your schoolfellows 
with a kind of gloomy superiority, considering yourself a lone, 
monstrous being who had committed a sin far above the daring 
of any of them. Are you sure that many others of your school- 
fellows were not looking upon you and the others with much the 
same eyes with which you were looking upon them? ” 

“ How ! ” said Peter, “ dost thou think that they had divined 
my secret?” 

“Not they,” said 1; “they were, I dare say, thinking too 
much of themselves and of their own concerns to have divined 
any secrets of yours. All I mean to say is, they had probably 
secrets of their own, and who knows that the secret sin of more than 
one of them was not the very sin which caused you so much misery? ” 
“ Dost thou then imagine,” said Peter, “ the sin against the 
Holy Ghost to be so common an occurrence ? ” 

“ As you have described it,” said I, “of very common 
occurrence, especially amongst children, who are, indeed, the 
only beings likely to commit it.” 

“ Truly,” said Winifred, “ the young man talks wisely.” 

Peter was silent for some moments, and appeared to be re- 
flecting ; at last, suddenly raising his head, he looked me full in 
the face, and, grasping my hand with vehemence, he said : “Tell 
me, young man, only one thing, hast thou, too, committed the 
sin against the Holy Ghost?” 

“I am neither Papist nor Methodist,” said I, “but of the 
Church, and, being so, confess myself to no one, but keep my own 
counsel ; I will tell thee, however, had I committed, at the same 
age, twenty such sins as that which you committed, I should feel no 
uneasiness at these years — but I am sleepy, and must go to rest.” 
“ God bless thee, young man,” said Winifred. 


CHAPTER LXXVIIT. 


Before I sank to rest I heard Winifred and her husband con- 
versing in the place where I had left them ; both their voices 
were low and calm. I soon fell asleep, and slumbered for some 
time. On my awakening I again heard them conversing, but 
they were now in their cart ; still the voices of both were calm. 
I heard no passionate bursts of wild despair on the part of the 
man. Methought I occasionally heard the word Pechod pro- 
ceeding from the lips of each, but with no particular emphasis. I 
supposed they were talking of the innate sin of both their hearts. 

“I wish that man were happy,” said I to myself, “were it 
only for his wife’s sake, and yet he deserves to be happy for his own.” 

The next day Peter was very cheerful, more cheerful than I 
had ever seen him. At breakfast his conversation was animated, 
and he smiled repeatedly. I looked at him with the greatest 
interest, and the eyes of his wife were almost constantly fixed 
upon him. A shade of gloom would occasionally come over his 
countenance, but it almost instantly disappeared ; perhaps it pro- 
ceeded more from habit than anything else. After breakfast he 
took his Welsh Bible and sat down beneath a tree. His eyes 
were soon fixed intently on the volume ; now and then he would 
call his wife, show her some passage, and appeared to consult 
with her. The day passed quickly and comfortably. 

“ Your husband seems much better,” said I, at evening fall, 
to Winifred, as we chanced to be alone. 

“ He does,” said Winifred ; “ and that on the day of the week 
when he was wont to appear most melancholy, for to-morrow is 
the Sabbath. He now no longer looks forward to the Sabbath 
with dread, but appears to reckon on it. What a happy change ! 
and to think that this change should have been produced by a few 
words, seemingly careless ones, proceeding from the mouth of one 
who is almost a stranger to him. Truly, it is wonderful.” 

“ To whom do you allude,” said I, “ and to what words? ” 

“ To yourself, and to the words which came from your lips 
last night, after you had heard my poor husband’s history. Those 
strange words, drawn out with so much seeming indifference, 
have produced in my husband the blessed effect which you have 

(424) 


1825.] 


ANOTHER SABBATH. 


4*5 


observed. They have altered the current of his ideas. He no 
longer thinks himself the only being in the world doomed to 
destruction, — the only being capable of committing the never-to- 
be-forgiven sin. Your supposition that that which harrowed his 
soul is of frequent occurrence amongst children, has tranquillised 
him ; the mist which hung over his mind has cleared away, and 
he begins to see the groundlessness of his apprehensions. The 
Lord has permitted him to be chastened for a season, but his 
lamp will only burn the brighter for what he has undergone.” 

Sunday came, fine and glorious as the last. Again my friends 
and myself breakfasted together, again the good family of the 
house on the hill above, headed by the respectable master, 
descended to the meadow. Peter and his wife were ready to 
receive them. Again Peter placed himself at the side of the 
honest farmer, and Winifred by the side of her friend. “ Wilt 
thou not come ? ” said Peter, looking towards me with a face in 
which there was much emotion. “ Wilt thou not come? ” said Wini- 
fred, with a face beaming with kindness. But I made no answer, 
and presently the party moved away, in the same manner in which 
it had moved on the preceding Sabbath, and I was again left alone. 

The hours of the Sabbath passed slowly away. I sat gazing at 
the sky, the trees and the water. At last I strolled up to the 
house and sat down in the porch. It was empty ; there was no 
modest maiden there, as on the preceding Sabbath. The damsel 
of the book had accompanied the rest. I had seen her in the 
procession, and the house appeared quite deserted. The owners 
had probably left it to my custody, so I sat down in the porch, 
quite alone. The hours of the Sabbath passed heavily away. 

At last evening came, and with it the party of the morning. 
I was now at my place beneath the oak. I went forward to meet 
them. Peter and his wife received me with a calm and quiet 
greeting, and passed forward. The rest of the party had broke 
into groups. There was a kind of excitement amongst them, and 
much eager whispering. I went to one of the groups ; the young 
girl of whom I have spoken more than once, was speaking : “ Such 
a sermon,” said she, “ it has never been our lot to hear ; Peter never 
before spoke as he has done this day — he was always a powerful 
preacher ; but oh, the unction of the discourse of this morning, and 
yet more of that of the afternoon, which was the continuation of it.” 
“What was the subject?” said I, interrupting her. “Ah! you 
should have been there, young man, to have heard it ; it would have 
made a lasting impression upon you. I was bathed in tears all the 
time ; those who heard it will never forget the preaching of the good 
Peter Williams on the Power, Providence and Goodness of God.” 


CHAPTER LXXIX. 


On the morrow I said to my friends: “I am about to depart; 
farewell ! ” “ Depart ! ” said Peter and his wife simultaneously, 

“ whither wouldst thou go ? ” “I can’t stay here all my days,” I 
replied. “ Of course not,” said Peter, “ but we had no idea of 
losing thee so soon : we had almost hoped that thou wouldst join 
us, become one of us. We are under infinite obligations to thee.” 
“You mean I am under infinite obligations to you,” said I. 
“ Did you not save my life?” “Perhaps so, under God,” said 
Peter ; “ and what hast thou not done for me ? Art thou aware 
that, under God, thou hast preserved my soul from despair ? But, 
independent of that, we like thy company, and feel a deep interest 
in thee, and would fain teach thee the way that is right. Hearken, 
to-morrow we go into Wales ; go with us.” “ I have no wish to 
go into Wales,” said I. “ Why not ? ” said Peter with animation. 
“Wales is a goodly country; as the Scripture says — a land of 
brooks of water, of fountains and depths, that spring out of valleys 
and hills, a land whose stones are iron, and out of whose hills 
thou mayest dig lead.” 

“ I daresay it is a very fine country,” said I, “but I have no 
wish to go there just now ; my destiny seems to point in another 
direction, to say nothing of my trade.” “ Thou dost right to say 
nothing of thy trade,” said Peter, smiling, “for thou seemest to 
care nothing about it; which has led Winifred and myself to 
suspect that thou art not altogether what thou seemest ; but, 
setting that aside, we should be most happy if thou wouldst go 
with us into Wales.” “ I cannot promise to go with you into 
Wales,” said I ; “ but, as you depart to-morrow, I will stay with 
you through the day, and on the morrow accompany you part of the 
way.” “ Do,” said Peter. “ I have many people to see to-day, and 
so has Winifred ; but we will both endeavour to have some serious 
discourse with thee, which, perhaps, will turn to thy profit in the end.” 

In the course of the day the good Peter came to me, as I was 
seated beneath the oak, and, placing himself by me, commenced 
addressing me in the following manner : — 

“ I have no doubt, my young friend, that you are willing to 
(426) 


“THE WELSHMAN'S CANDLE : 


427 


1825.] 


admit, that the most important thing which a human being pos- 
sesses is his soul ; it is of infinitely more importance than the body, 
which is a frail substance, and cannot last for many years ; but 
not so the soul, which, by its nature, is imperishable. To one of 
two mansions the soul is destined to depart, after its separation 
from the body, to heaven or hell : to the halls of eternal bliss, 
where God and His holy angels dwell, or to the place of endless 
misery, inhabited by Satan and his grisly companions. My friend, 
if the joys of heaven are great, unutterably great, so are the 
torments of hell unutterably so. I wish not to speak of them, I 
wish not to terrify your imagination with the torments of hell ; 
indeed, I like not to think of them ; but it is necessary to speak 
of them sometimes, and to think of them sometimes, lest you 
should sink into a state of carnal security. Authors, friend, and 
learned men are not altogether agreed as to the particulars of 
hell. They all agree, however, in considering it a place of 
exceeding horror. Master Ellis Wyn, who by-the-bye was a 
Churchman, calls it, amongst other things, a place of strong sighs, 
and of flaming sparks. Master Rees Pritchard, who was not only 
a Churchman, but Vicar of Llandovery, and flourished about two 
hundred years ago — I wish many like him flourished now — - 
speaking of hell, in his collection of sweet hymns, called the 
Welshman's Candle , observes : — 

“‘The pool is continually blazing; it is very deep, without 
any known bottom, and the walls are so high, that there is neither 
hope nor possibility of escaping over them 

“ But, as I told you just now, I have no great pleasure in talking 
of hell. No, friend, no ; 1 would sooner talk of the other place, and 
of the goodness and hospitality of God amongst His saints above.” 

And then the excellent man began to dilate upon the joys of 
heaven, and the goodness and hospitality of God in the mansions 
above, explaining to me, in the clearest way, how I might get there. 

And when he had finished what he had to say, he left me, 
whereupon Winifred drew nigh, and sitting down by me, began 
to address me. “I do not think,” said she, “from what I have 
observed of thee, that thou wouldst wish to be ungrateful, and 
yet, is not thy whole life a series of ingratitude, and to whom ? — 
to thy Maker. Has He not endowed thee with a goodly and 
healthy form, and senses which enable thee to enjoy the delights 
of His beautiful universe — the work of His hands? Canst thou 
not enjoy, even to rapture, the brightness of the sun, the perfume 
of the meads, and the song of the dear birds, which inhabit 
among the trees? Yes, thou canst; for I have seen thee, and 


428 


LA VENGRO. 


[i&S- 


observed thee doing so. Yet, during the whole time that I have 
known thee, I have not heard proceed from thy lips one single 
word of praise or thanksgiving to ” 

And in this manner the admirable woman proceeded for a 
considerable time, and to all her discourse I listened with attention ; 
and when she had concluded I took her hand and said, “ I thank 
you,” and that was all. 

On the next day everything was ready for our departure. The 
good family of the house came to bid us farewell. There were 
shaking of hands, and kisses, as on the night of our arrival. 

And as I stood somewhat apart, the young girl of whom I have 
spoken so often came up to me, and, holding out her hand, said : 
“ Farewell, young man, wherever thou goest ”. Then, after looking 
around her, she said : “ It was all true you told me. Yesterday 
I received a letter from him thou wottest of, he is coming soon. 
God bless you, young man ; who would have thought thou knewest 
so much ! ” 

So after we had taken our farewell of the good family, we 
departed, proceeding in the direction of Wales. Peter was very 
cheerful, and enlivened the way with godly discourse and spiritual 
hymns, some of which- were in the Welsh language. At length 
I said : “ It is a pity that you did not continue in the Church ; 
you have a turn for Psalmody, and I have heard of a man be- 
coming a bishop, by means of a less qualification ”. 

“Very probably,” said Peter; “more the pity. But I have 
told you the reason of my forsaking it. Frequently, when I went 
to the church door, I found it barred, and the priest absent ; what 
was I to do? My heart was bursting for want of some religious 
help and comfort; what could I do ! as good Master Rees Pritchard 
observes in his Candle for Welshmen : — 

“ ‘ It is a doleful thing to see little children burning on the 
hot coals for want of help, but yet more doleful to see a flock of 
souls falling into the burning lake for want of a priest 

“ The Church of England is a fine church,” said I ; “ I would 
not advise any one to speak ill of the Church of England before me.” 

“ I have nothing to say against the church,” said Peter ; “all 
I wish is that it would fling itself a little more open, and that its 
priests would a little more bestir themselves ; in a word, that it 
would shoulder the cross and become a missionary church.” 

“ It is too proud for that,” said Winifred. 

“You are much more of a Methodist,” said I, “than your 
husband. But tell me,” said I, addressing myself to Peter, “do 
you not differ from the church in some points of doctrine ? I, of 


i 825-] 


FOUNDED ON A ROCK. 


429 


course, as a true member of the church, am quite ignorant of the 
peculiar opinions of wandering sectaries.” 

“ Oh, the pride of that church ! ” said Winifred half to herself ; 
“ wandering sectaries ! ” 

“We differ in no points of doctrine,” said Peter; “ we believe 
all the church believes, though we are not so fond of vain and 
superfluous ceremonies, snow-white neckcloths and surplices, as 
the church is. We likewise think that there is no harm in a 
sermon by the road-side, or in holding free discourse with a beggar 
beneath a hedge, or a tinker,” he added, smiling; “it was those 
superfluous ceremonies, those surplices and white neckcloths, and, 
above all, the necessity of strictly regulating his words and conver- 
sation, which drove John Wesley out of the church, and sent him 
wandering up and down as you see me, poor Welsh Peter, do.” 

Nothing further passed for some time ; we were now drawing 
near the hills : at last I said : “You must have met with a great 
many strange adventures since you took up this course of life ? ” 

“ Many,” said Peter, “ it has been my lot to meet with, but 
none more strange than one which occurred to me only a few 
weeks ago. You were asking me, not long since, whether I be- 
lieved in devils ? Ay, truly, young man ; and I believe that the 
abyss and the yet deeper unknown do not contain them all ; some 
walk about upon the green earth. So it happened, some weeks 
ago, that I was exercising my ministry, about forty miles from 
here. I was alone, Winifred, being slightly indisposed, staying 
for a few days at the house of an acquaintance ; I had finished 
afternoon’s worship — the people had dispersed, and I was sitting 
solitary by my cart under some green trees in a quiet, retired 
place ; suddenly a voice said to me : f Good evening, Pastor ’ ; I 
looked up, and before me stood a man, at least the appearance 
of a man, dressed in a black suit of rather a singular fashion. He 
was about my own age, or somewhat older. As I looked upon 
him, it appeared to me that I had seen him twice before whilst 
preaching. I replied to his salutation, and perceiving that he 
looked somewhat fatigued, I took out a stool from the cart, and 
asked him to sit down. We began to discourse ; I at first 
supposed that he might be one of ourselves, some wandering 
minister ; but I was soon undeceived. Neither his language nor 
his ideas were those of any one of our body. He spoke on all 
kinds of matters with much fluency, till at last he mentioned my 
preaching, complimenting me on my powers. I replied, as well 
I might, that I could claim no merit of my own, and that if 
I spoke with any effect, it was only by the grace of God. As I 
uttered these last words, a horrible kind of sneer came over his 


430 


LA VENGRO. 


[1835- 


countenance, which made me shudder, for there was something 
diabolical in it. I said little more, but listened attentively to 
his discourse. At last he said that I was engaged in a paltry 
cause, quite unworthy of one of my powers. ‘ How can that 
be ,’ said I, ‘ even if I possessed all the powers in the world, seeing 
that I am engaged in the cause of our Lord Jesus?’ 

“ The same kind of sneer again came on his countenance, but 
he almost instantly observed that if I chose to forsake this same 
miserable cause, from which nothing but contempt and privation 
were to be expected, he would enlist me into another, from which 
I might expect both profit and renown. An idea now came into 
my head, and I told him firmly, that if he wished me to forsake 
my present profession and become a member of the Church of 
England, I must absolutely decline ; that I had no ill-will against 
that church, but I thought I could do most good in my present 
position, which I would not forsake to be Archbishop of Canter- 
bury. Thereupon he burst into a strange laughter, and went 
away, repeating to himself, 1 Church of England ! Archbishop 
of Canterbury ! ’ A few days after, when I was once more in a 
solitary place, he again appeared before me, and asked me 
whether I had thought over his words, and whether I was willing 
to enlist under the banners of his master, adding, that he was 
eager to secure me, as he conceived that I might be highly useful 
to the cause. I then asked him who his master was ; he hesitated 
for a moment, and then answered, ‘ The Roman Pontiff’. ‘ If it 
be he,’ said I, ‘I can have nothing to do with him ; I will serve 
no one who is an enemy of Christ.’ Thereupon he drew near to 
me and told me not to talk so much like a simpleton ; that as for 
Christ, it was probable that no such person ever existed, but that 
if He ever did, He was the greatest impostor the world ever saw. 
How long he continued in this way I know not, for I now con- 
sidered that an evil spirit was before me, and shrank within myself, 
shivering in every limb ; when I recovered myself and looked 
about me, he was gone. Two days after, he again stood before 
me, in the same place, and about the same hour, renewing his 
propositions, and speaking more horribly than before. I made him 
no answer, whereupon he continued ; but suddenly hearing a 
noise behind him, he looked round and beheld Winifred, who 
had returned to me on the morning of that day. ‘ Who are you ? ’ 
said he fiercely. ‘ This man’s wife,’ said she, calmly fixing her 
eyes upon him. ‘ Begone from him, unhappy one, thou temptest 
him in vain.’ He made no answer, but stood as if transfixed ; 
at length recovering himself, he departed, muttering ‘ Wife ! Wife ! 
If the fool has a wife, he will never do for us.’ ” 


CHAPTER LXXX. 


We were now drawing very near the hills, and Peter said, “ If 
you are to go into Wales, you must presently decide, for we are 
close upon the border 

“ Which is the border ? ” said I. 

“ Yon small brook,” said Peter, “ into which the man on 
horseback, who is coming towards us, is now entering.” 

“ I see it,” said I, “ and the man ; he stops in the middle of 
it, as if to water his steed.” 

We proceeded till we had nearly reached the brook. “ Well,” 
said Peter, “ will you go into Wales ? ” 

“ What should I do in Wales ? ” I demanded. 

“ Do ! ” said Peter, smiling, “ learn Welsh.” 

I stopped my little pony. “ Then I need not go into Wales ; 
I already know Welsh.” 

“ Know Welsh ! ” said Peter, staring at me. 

“ Know Welsh ! ” said Winifred, stopping her cart. 

“ How and when did you learn it? ” said Peter. 

“ From books, in my boyhood.” 

“ Read Welsh ! ” said Peter, “ is it possible ? ” 

“ Read Welsh ! ” said Winifred, “ is it possible ? ” 

“ Well, I hope you will come with us,” said Peter. 

“ Come with us, young man,” said Winifred ; “let me, on the 
other side of the brook, welcome you into Wales.” 

“ Thank you both,” said I, “ but I will not come.” 

“ Wherefore? ” exclaimed both simultaneously. 

“ Because it is neither fit nor proper that I cross into Wales 
at this time, and in this manner. When I go into Wales, I should 
wish to go in a new suit of superfine black, with hat and beaver, 
mounted on a powerful steed, black and glossy, like that which 
bore Greduv to the fight of Catraeth. I should wish, moreover, 
to see the Welshmen assembled on the border ready to welcome 
me with pipe and fiddle, and much whooping and shouting, and 
to attend me to Wrexham, or even as far as Machynllaith, where 
I should wish to be invited to a dinner at which all the bards 

(431) 


432 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


should be present, and to be seated at the right hand of the 
president, who, when the cloth was removed should arise, and, 
amidst cries of silence, exclaim — ‘ Brethren and Welshmen, 
allow me to propose the health of my most respectable friend the 
translator of the odes of the great Ab Gwilym, the pride and 
glory of Wales V* 

“ How ! ” said Peter ; “ hast thou translated the works of the 
mighty Dafydd?” 

“ With notes critical, historical and explanatory.” 

“Come with us, friend,” said Peter. “I cannot promise 
such a dinner as thou wishest, but neither pipe nor fiddle shall be 
wanting.” 

“ Come with us, young man,” said Winifred, “ even as thou 
art, and the daughters of Wales shall bid thee welcome.” 

“ I will not go with you,” said I. “ Dost thou see that man 
in the ford? ” 

“ Who is staring at us so, and whose horse has not yet done 
drinking ? Of course I see him.” 

“ I shall turn back with him. God bless you ! ” 

“ Go back with him not,” said Peter, “he is one of those 
whom I like not, one of the clibberty-clabber, as Master Ellis 
Wyn observes — turn not with that man.” 

“Go not back with him,” said Winifred. “If thou goest 
with that man, thou wilt soon forget all our profitable counsels ; 
come with us.” 

“ I cannot ; I have much to say to him. Kosko Divvus, 
Mr. Petulengro.” 

“Kosko Divvus, Pal,” said Mr. Petulengro, riding through 
the water ; “ are you turning back ? ” 

I turned back with Mr. Petulengro. 

Peter came running after me : “ One moment, young man, 
w T ho and what are you ? ” 

“ I must answer in the words of Taliesin,” said I ; “ none can 
say with positiveness whether I be fish or flesh, least of all my- 
self. God bless you both ! ” 

“ Take this,” said Peter ; and he thrust his Welsh Bible into 
my hand. 


Chapter lxxxi. 


So I turned back with Mr. Petulengro. We travelled for some 
time in silence; at last we fell into discourse. “You have been* 
in Wales, Mr. Petulengro ? ” 

“ Ay, truly, brother.” 

“ What have you been doing there?” 

“ Assisting at a funeral.” 

“ At whose funeral ? ” 

“ Mrs. Heine’s, brother.” 

“ Is she dead, then ? ” 

“Asa nail, brother.” 

“ How did she die ? ” 

“ By hanging, brother.” 

“ I am lost in astonishment,” said I ; whereupon Mr. Petu- 
lengro, lifting his sinister leg over the neck of his steed, and 
adjusting himself sideways in the saddle, replied with great de- 
liberation : — 

“ Two days ago, I happened to be at a fair not very far from 
here ; I was all alone by myself, for our party were upwards of 
forty miles off, when who should come up but a chap that I 
knew, a relation, or rather, a connection of mine — one of those 
Hearnes. ‘ Ar’n’t you going to the funeral?’ said he; and then, 
brother, there passed between him and me, in the way of ques- 
tioning and answering, much the same as has just now passed 
between I and you ; but when he mentioned hanging, I thought 
I could do no less than ask who hanged her, which you forgot 
to do. ‘ Who hanged her ? ’ said I ; and then the man told me 
that she had done it herself — been her own hinjiri ; and then I 
thought to myself what a sin and shame it would be if I did not 
go to the funeral, seeing that she was my own mother-in-law. I 
would have brought my wife, and, indeed, the whole of our party, 
but there was no time for that ; they were too far off, and the 
dead was to be buried early the next morning, so I went with 
the man, and he led me into Wales, where his party had lately 
retired, and when there, through many wild and desolate places 

(433) 28 


434 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


to their encampment, and there I found the Hearnes, and the 
dead body — the last laid out on a mattress, in £ tent, dressed 
Romaneskoenaes, in a red cloak and big bonnet of black beaver. 
1 must say for the Hearnes that they took the matter very coolly : 
some were eating, others drinking, and some were talking 
about their small affairs ; there was one, however, who did not 
take the matter so coolly, but took on enough for the whole 
family, sitting beside the dead woman, tearing her hair, and re- 
fusing to take either meat or drink ; it was the child Leonora. 
I arrived at nightfall, and the burying was not to take place 
till the morning, which I was rather sorry for, as I am not very 
fond of them Hearnes, who are not very fond of anybody. They 
never asked me to eat or drink, notwithstanding I had married 
into the family ; one of them, however, came up and offered to 
fight me for five shillings ; had it not been for them, I should 
have come back as empty as I went — he didn’t stand up five 
minutes. Brother, I passed the night as well as I could, beneath 
a tree, for the tents were full, and not over clean ; I slept little, and 
had my eyes about me, for I knew the kind of people I was among. 

“ Early in the morning the funeral took place. The body 
was placed not in a coffin but on a bier, and carried not to a 
churchyard but to a deep dell close by ; and there it was buried 
beneath a rock, dressed just as I have told you; and this was 
done by the bidding of Leonora, who had heard her bebee say 
that she wished to be buried, not in gorgious fashion, but like a 
Roman woman of the old blood, the kosko puro rati, brother. 
When it was over, and we had got back to the encampment, I 
prepared to be going. Before mounting my gry, however, I be- 
thought me to ask what could have induced the dead woman to 
make away with herself, a thing so uncommon amongst Romanies ; 
whereupon one squinted with his eyes, a second spirted saliver into 
the air, and a third said that he neither knew nor cared ; she was 
a good riddance, having more than once been nearly the ruin 
of them all, from the quantity of brimstone she carried about 
her. One, however, I suppose, rather ashamed of the way in 
which they had treated me, said at last, that if I wanted to know 
all about the matter, none could tell me better than the child, who 
was in all her secrets, and was not a little like her ; so I looked 
about for the child, but could find her nowhere. At last the same 
man told me that he shouldn’t wonder if I found her at the grave ; 
so I went back to the grave, and sure enough there I found the 
child, Leonora, seated on the ground above the body, crying and 
taking on ; so I spoke' kindly to her, and said, how came all this, 


1825.] 


MRS. HERNE’S DEATH. 


435 


Leonora? tell me all about it. It was a long time before 
I could get any answer ; at last she opened her mouth, and spoke, 
and these were the words she said : ' It was all along of your pal * ; 
and then she told me all about the matter. How Mrs. Hearne 
could not abide you, which I knew before, and that she had sworn 
your destruction, which I did not know before. And then she 
told me how she found you living in the wood by yourself, and 
how you were enticed to eat a poisoned cake ; and she told me 
many other things that you wot of, and she told me what perhaps 
you don’t wot, namely, that finding you had been removed, she, 
the child, had tracked you a long way, and found you at last well 
and hearty, and no ways affected by the poison, and heard you, 
as she stood concealed, disputing about religion with a Welsh 
Methody. Well, brother, she told me all this ; and, moreover, 
that when Mrs. Hearne heard of it, she said that a dream of hers 
had come to pass. I don’t know what it was, but something 
about herself, a tinker, and a dean ; and then she added, that it 
was all up with her, and that she must take a long journey. Well, 
brother, that same night Leonora, waking from her sleep in the 
tent, where Mrs. Hearne and she were wont to sleep, missed her 
bebee, and, becoming alarmed, went in search of her, and at last 
found her hanging from a branch ; and when the child had got 
so far, she took on violently, and I could not get another word 
from her ; so I left her, and here I am.” 

“ And I am glad to see you, Mr. Petulengro ; but this is sad 
news which you tell me about Mrs. Hearne.” 

“Somewhat dreary, brother; yet, perhaps, after all, it is a 
good thing that she is removed; she carried so much Devil’s 
tinder about with her, as the man said.” 

“ I am sorry for her,” said I ; “ more especially as I am the 
cause of her death — though the innocent one.” 

“She could not bide you, brother, that’s certain ; but that is 
no reason ” — said Mr. Petulengro, balancing himself upon the 
saddle — “that is no reason why she should prepare drow to take 
away your essence of life, and, when disappointed, to hang her- 
self upon a tree if she was dissatisfied with you, she might have 
flown at you, and scratched your face ; or, if she did not judge 
herself your match, she might have put down five shillings for a 
turn-up between you and some one she thought could beat you 
— myself, for example, and so the matter might have ended com- 
fortably ; but she was always too fond of covert ways, drows and 
brimstones. This is not the first poisoning affair she has been 
engaged in.” 


43 ^ 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“You allude to drabbing bawlor.” 

“ Bah ! ” said Mr. Petulengro ; “ there’s no harm in that. No, 
no ! she has cast drows in her time for other guess things than 
bawlor; both Gorgios and Romans have tasted of them, and 
died. Did you never hear of the poisoned plum pudding ? 

“ Never.” 

“Then I will tell you about it. It happened about six years 
ago, a few months after she had quitted us — she had gone first 
among her own people, as she called them ; but there was another 
small party of Romans, with whom she soon became very intimate. 
It so happened that this small party got into trouble ; whether it 
was about a horse or an ass, or passing bad money, no matter to 
you and me, who had no hand in the business ; three or four of 

them were taken and lodged in Castle, and amongst them 

was a woman ; but the sherengro, or principal man of the party, 
and who it seems had most hand in the affair, was still at large. 
All of a sudden a rumour was spread abroad that the woman was 
about to play false, and to peach the rest. Said the principal 
man, when he heard it, ‘ If she does, I am nashkado ’. Mrs. 
Hearne was then on a visit to the party, and when she heard the 
principal man take on so, she said : ‘ But I suppose you know 
what to do?’ ‘I do not,’ said he. ‘Then hir mi devlis,’ said 
she, ‘ you are a fool. But leave the matter to me, I know how 
to dispose of her in Roman fashion.’ Why she wanted to in- 
terfere in the matter, brother, I don’t know, unless it was from 
pure brimstoneness of disposition — she had no hand in the matter 
which had brought the party into trouble, she was only on a visit, 
and it had happened before she came ; but she was always ready 
to give dangerous advice. Well, brother, the principal man 
listened to what she had to say, and let her do what she would ; 
and she made a pudding, a very nice one, no doubt — for, besides 
plums, she put in drows and all the Roman condiments that she 
knew of ; and she gave it to the principal man, and the principal 

man put it into a basket and directed it to the woman in Castle, 

and the woman in the castle took it and ” 

“Ate of it,” said I, “just like my case?” 

“ Quite different, brother ; she took it, it is true, but instead 
of giving way to her appetite as you might have done, she put 
it before the rest whom she was going to impeach — perhaps 
she wished to see how they liked it before she tasted it herself — 
and all the rest were poisoned, and one died, and there was a 
precious outcry, and the woman cried loudest of all ; and she 
said : ‘ It was my death was sought for; I know the man, and I’ll 


1825.] 


THE PLUM PUDDING. 


437 


be revenged,’ and then the Poknees spoke to her and said, ‘ Where 
can we find him?’ and she said, ‘I am awake to his motions; 
three weeks from hence, the night before the full moon, at such 
and such an hour, he will pass down such a lane with such a 
man 

“Well,” said I, “ and what did the Poknees do?” 

“ Do, brother, sent for a plastramengro from Bow Street, quite 
secretly, and told him what the woman had said ; and the night 
before the full moon, the plastramengro went to the place which 
the juwa had pointed out, all alone, brother ; and, in order that 
he might not be too late, he went two hours before his time. I 
know the place well, brother, where the plastramengro placed 
himself behind a thick holly tree, at the end of a lane, where a 
gate leads into various fields, through which there is a path for 
carts and horses. The lane is called the dark lane by the Gorgios, 
being much shaded by trees ; so the plastramengro placed himself 
in the dark lane behind the holly tree ; it was a cold February 
night, dreary, though ; the wind blew in gusts, and the moon had 
not yet risen, and the plastramengro waited behind a tree till he 
was tired, and thought he might as well sit down ; so he sat down 
and was not long in falling to sleep, and there he slept for some 
hours ; and when he awoke, the moon had risen, and was shining 
bright, so that there was a kind of moonlight even in the dark 
lane ; and the plastramengro pulled out his watch, and contrived 
to make out that it was just two hours beyond the time when the 
men should have passed by. Brother, I do not know what the 
plastramengro thought of himself, but I know, brother, what I 
should have thought of myself in his situation. I should have 
thought, brother, that I was a drowsy scoppelo, and that I had 
let the fellow pass by whilst I was sleeping behind a bush. As it 
turned out, however, his going to sleep did no harm, but quite the 
contrary ; just as he was going away, he heard a gate slam in the 
direction of the fields, and then he heard the low stumping of 
horses, as if on soft ground, for the path in those fields is generally 
soft, and at that time it had been lately ploughed up. Well, 
brother, presently he saw two men on horseback coming towards 
the lane through the field behind the gate ; the man who rode 
foremost was a tall, big fellow, the very man he was in quest of : 
the other was a smaller chap, not so small either, but a light, wiry 
fellow, and a proper master of his hands when he sees occasion 
for using them. Well, brother, the foremost man came to the 
gate, reached at the hank, undid it, and rode through, holding it 
open for the other. Before, however, the other could follow into 


43 « 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


the lane, out bolted the plastramengro from behind the tree, 
kicked the gate too with his foot, and, seizing the big man on 
horseback, 'You are my prisoner,’ said he. I am of opinion, 
brother, that the plastramengro, notwithstanding he went to sleep, 
must have been a regular fine fellow.” 

“ I am entirely of your opinion,” said I ; “ but what happened 
then ?” 

“ Why, brother, the Rommany chal, after he had somewhat 
recovered from his surprise, for it is rather uncomfortable to be 
laid hold of at night-time, and told you are a prisoner ; more 
especially when you happen to have two or three things on your 
mind, which, if proved against you, would carry you to the nashky. 
The Rommany chal, I say, clubbed his whip, and aimed a blow 
at the plastramengro, which, if it had hit him on the skull, as was 
intended, would very likely have cracked it. The plastramengro, 
however, received it partly on his staff, so that it did him no 
particular damage. Whereupon seeing what kind of customer he 
had to deal with, he dropped his staff, and seized the chal with 
both his hands, who forthwith spurred his horse, hoping by doing 
so, either to break away from him, or fling him down ; but it 
would not do — the plastramengro held on like a bulldog, so that 
the Rommany chal, to escape being hauled to the ground, sud- 
denly flung himself off the saddle, and then happened in that 
lane, close by the gate, such a struggle between those two — the 
chal and the runner — as I suppose will never happen again. But 
you must have heard of it ; every one has heard of it ; every one 
has heard of the fight between the Bow street engro and the 
Rommany chal.” 

“ I never heard of it till now.” 

“ All England rung of it, brother. There never was a better 
match than between those two. The runner was somewhat the 
stronger of the two — all these engroes are strong fellows — and a 
great deal cooler, for all of that sort are wondrous cool people — 
he had, however, to do with one who knew full well how to take 
his own part. The chal fought the engro, brother, in the old 
Roman fashion. He bit, he kicked, and screamed like a wild 
cat of Benygant ; casting foam from his mouth, and fire from his 
eyes. Sometimes he was beneath the engro’s legs, and sometimes 
he was upon his shoulders. What the engro found the most diffi- 
cult, was to get a firm hold of the chal, for no sooner did he seize 
the chal by any part of his wearing apparel, than the chal either 
tore himself away, or contrived to slip out of it ; so that in a little 
time the chal was three parts naked ; and as for holding him by 


1 825-] 


SATISFACTION. 


439 


the body, it was out of the question, for he was as slippery as an 
eel. At last the engro seized the chal by the Belcher’s handker- 
chief, which he wore in a knot round his neck, and do whatever 
the chal could, he could not free himself ; and when the engro 
saw that, it gave him fresh heart, no doubt ; ‘ It’s of no use,’ said 
he ; ‘ you had better give in ; hold out your hands for the darbies, 
or I will throttle 700’.” 

“ And what did the other fellow do, who came with the chal ? ” 
said I. 

“I sat still on my horse, brother.” 

“ You ? ” said I. “ Were you the man ? ” 

“ I was he, brother.” 

“ And why did you not help your comrade ? ” 

“ I have fought in the ring, brother.” 

“And what had fighting] in the ring to do with fighting in 
the lane? ” 

“You mean not fighting. A great deal, brother; it taught 
me to prize fair play. When I fought Staffordshire Dick, t’other 
side of London, I was alone, brother. Not a Rommany chal to 
back me, and he had all his brother pals about him ; but they 
gave me fair play, brother ; and I beat Staffordshire Dick, which 
I couldn’t have done had they put one finger on his side the 
scale ; for he was as good a man as myself, or nearly so. Now, 
brother, had I but bent a finger in favour of the Rommany chal 
the plastramengro would never have come alive out of the lane ; 
but I did not, for I thought to myself fair play is a precious stone ; 
so you see, brother ” 

“ That you are quite right, Mr. Petulengro ; I see that clearly ; 
and now, pray proceed with your narration ; it is both moral and 
entertaining.” 

But Mr. Petulengro did not proceed with his narration, neither 
did he proceed upon his way ; he had stopped his horse, and his 
eyes were intently fixed on a broad strip of grass beneath some 
lofty trees, on the left side of the road. It was a pleasant enough 
spot, and seemed to invite wayfaring people, such as we were, to 
rest from the fatigues of the road, and the heat and vehemence 
of the sun. After examining it for a considerable time, Mr. 
Petulengro said : “ I say, brother, that would be a nice place for 
a tuzzle ! ” 

“ I daresay it would,” said I, “if two people were inclined to 
fight.” 

“ The ground is smooth,” said Mr. Petulengro ; “ without 
holes or ruts, and the trees cast much shade. I don’t think, 


440 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


brother, that we could find a better place,” said Mr. Petulengro, 
springing from his horse. 

** But you and I don’t want to fight ! ” 

“ Speak for yourself, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro. “ How- 
ever, I will tell you how the matter stands. There is a point at 
present between us. There can be no doubt that you are the 
cause of Mrs. Hearne’s death, innocently, you will say, but still 
the cause. Now, I shouldn’t like it to be known that I went up 
and down the country with a pal who was the cause of my mother- 
in-law’s death — that’s to say, unless he gave me satisfaction. Now, 
if I and my pal have a tuzzle, he gives me satisfaction ; and if he 
knocks my eyes out, which I know you can’t do, it makes no 
difference at all, he gives me satisfaction ; and he who says to 
the contrary, knows nothing of gypsy law, and is a dinelo into 
the bargain.” 

“ But we have no gloves ! ” 

“ Gloves ! ” said Mr. Petulengro contemptuously, “ gloves ! 
I tell you what, brother, I always thought you were a better hand 
at the gloves than the naked fist ; and, to tell you the truth, be- 
sides taking satisfaction for Mrs. Hearne’s death, I wish to see 
what you can do with your morleys ; so now is your time, brother, 
and this is your place, grass and shade, no ruts or holes ; come 
on, brother, or I shall think you what I should not like to call 
you.” 


CHAPTER LXXXII. 


And when I heard Mr. Petulengro talk in this manner, which I 
had never heard him do before, and which I can only account for 
by his being fasting and ill-tempered, I had of course no other 
alternative than to accept his challenge ; so I put myself into a 
posture which I deemed the best both for offence and defence, 
and the tuzzle commenced ; and when it had endured for about 
half an hour, Mr. Petulengro said : “ Brother, there is much 
blood on your face, you had better wipe it off”; and when I 
had wiped it off, and again resumed my former attitude, Mr. 
Petulengro said : “ I think enough has been done, brother, in the 
affair of the old woman ; I have, moreover, tried what you are 
able to do, and find you as I thought, less apt with the naked 
morleys than the stuffed gloves ; nay, brother, put your hands 
down ; I’m satisfied ; blood has heen shed, which is all that can 
be reasonably expected for an old woman, who carried so much 
brimstone about her as Mrs. Hearne ”. 

So the struggle ended, and we resumed our route, Mr. 
Petulengro sitting sideways upon his horse as before, and I driving 
my little pony-cart ; and when we had proceeded about three 
miles, we came to a small public-house, which bore the sign of 
the Silent Woman, where we stopped to refresh our cattle and 
ourselves ; and as we sat over our bread and ale, it came to pass 
that Mr. Petulengro asked me various questions, and amongst 
others, how I intended to dispose of myself ; I told him that I 
did not know ; whereupon with considerable frankness, he invited 
me to his camp, and told me that if I chose to settle down 
amongst them, and become a Rommany chal, I should have his 
wife’s sister, Ursula, who was still unmarried, and occasionally 
talked of me. 

I declined his offer, assigning as a reason the recent death of 
Mrs. Hearne, of which I was the cause, although innocent. “ A 
pretty life I should lead with those two,” said I, “when they 
came to know it.” “Pooh,” said Mr. Petulengro, “they will 
never know it. I shan’t blab, and as for Leonora, that girl has a 


442 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


head on her shoulders.” “ Unlike the woman in the sign,” said 
I, “ whose head is cut off. You speak nonsense, Mr. Petulengro ; 
as long as a woman has a head on her shoulders she’ll talk, — but, 
leaving women out of the case, it is impossible to keep anything 
a secret ; an old master of mine told me so long ago. I have 
moreover another reason for declining your offer. I am at 
present not disposed for society. I am become fond of solitude. 
I wish I could find some quiet place to which I could retire to 
hold communion with my own thoughts, and practise, if I thought 
fit, either of my trades.” “ What trades?” said Mr. Petulengro. 
“ Why, the one which I have lately been engaged in, or my 
original one, which I confess I should like better, that of a 
kaulomescro.” “ Ah, I have frequently heard you talk of making 
horse-shoes,” said Mr. Petulengro. “ I, however, never saw you 
make one, and no one else that I am aware. I don’t believe — 
come, brother, don’t be angry, it’s quite possible that you may 
have done things which neither I nor any one else has seen you 
do, and that such things may some day or other come to light, as 
you say nothing can be kept secret. Be that, however, as it may, 
pay the reckoning and let us be going ; I think I can advise you 
to just such a kind of place as you seem to want.” 

“ And how do you know that I have got wherewithal to pay 
the reckoning ? ” I demanded. “Brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, 
“ I was just now looking in your face, which exhibited the very 
look of a person conscious of the possession of property ; there 
was nothing hungry or sneaking in it. Pay the reckoning, 
brother.” 

And when we were once more upon the road Mr. Petulengro 
began to talk of the place which he conceived would serve me as 
a retreat under present circumstances. “ I tell you frankly, 
brother, that it is a queer kind of place, and I am not very fond 
of pitching my tent in it, it is so surprisingly dreary. It is a deep 
dingle in the midst of a large field, on an estate about which there 
has been a lawsuit for some years past. I daresay you will be 
quiet enough, for the nearest town is five miles distant, and there 
are only a few huts and hedge public-houses in the neighbourhood. 
Brother, I am fond of solitude myself, but not that kind of 
solitude ; I like a quiet heath, where I can pitch my house, but I 
always like to have a gay, stirring place not far off, where the 
women can pen dukkerin, and I myself can sell or buy a horse, 
if needful — such a place as the Chong Gav. I never feel so 
merry as when there, brother, or on the heath above it, where I 
taught you Rommany. 


THE SEPARATION. 


443 


1825.] 


Shortly after this discourse we reached a milestone, and a few 
yards from the milestone, on the left hand, was a cross-road. 
Thereupon Mr. Petulengro said : “ Brother, my path lies to the 
left ; if you choose to go with me to my camp, good, if not, Chal 
Devlehi But I again refused Mr. Petulengro’s invitation, and, 
shaking him by the hand, proceeded forward alone, and about 
ten miles farther on I reached the town of which he had spoken, 
and following certain directions which he had given, discovered, 
though not without some difficulty, the dingle which he had 
mentioned. It was a deep hollow in the midst of a wide field, 
the shelving sides were overgrown with trees and bushes, a belt 
of sallows surrounded it on the top, a steep winding path led 
down into the depths, practicable, however, for a light cart, like 
mine ; at the bottom was an open space, and there I pitched my 
tent, and there I contrived to put up my forge. “ I will here ply 
the trade of kaulomescro,” said I. 


CHAPTER LXXXIII. 


It has always struck me that there is something highly poetical 
about a forge. I am not singular in this opinion : various indi- 
viduals have assured me that they can never pass by one, even in 
the midst of a crowded town, without experiencing sensations which 
they can scarcely define, tiut which are highly pleasurable. I 
have a decided penchant for forges, especially rural ones, placed 
in some quaint, quiet spot — a dingle, for example, which is a 
poetical place, or at a meeting of four roads, which is still more 
so ; for how many a superstition — and superstition is the soul of 
poetry — is connected with these cross-roads ! I love to light 
upon such a one, especially after nightfall, as everything about a 
forge tells to most advantage at night ; the hammer sounds more 
solemnly in the stillness ; the glowing particles scattered by the 
strokes sparkle with more effect in the darkness, whilst the sooty 
visage of the sastramescro, half in shadow, and half-illumed by 
the red and partial blaze of the forge, looks more mysterious and 
strange. On such occasions I draw in my horse’s rein, and, 
seated in the saddle, endeavour to associate with the picture be- 
fore me — in itself a picture of romance — whatever of the wild and 
wonderful I have read of in books, or have seen with my own 
eyes in connection with forges. 

I believe the life of any blacksmith, especially a rural one, 
would afford materials for a highly poetical history. I do not 
speak unadvisedly, having the honour to be free of the forge, and 
therefore fully competent to give an opinion as to what might be 
made out of the forge by some dextrous hand. Certainly, the 
strangest and most entertaining life ever written is that of a 
blacksmith of the olden north, a certain Volundr, or Velint, who 
lived in woods and thickets, made keen swords, so keen, indeed, 
that if placed in a running stream, they would fairly divide an 
object, however slight, which was borne against them by the 
water, and who eventually married a king’s daughter, by whom 
he had a son, who was as bold a knight as his father was a 
cunning blacksmith. I never see a forge at night, when seated 

( 444 ) 































































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1825.] 


MUMPERS' DINGLE. 


445 


on the back of my horse at the bottom of a dark lane, but I 
somehow or other associate it with the exploits of this extra- 
ordinary fellow, with many other extraordinary things, amongst 
which, as I have hinted before, are particular passages of my own 
life, one or two of which I shall perhaps relate to the reader. 

I never associate Vulcan and his Cyclops with the idea of a 
forge. These gentry would be the very last people in the world 
to flit across my mind whilst gazing at the forge from the bottom 
of the dark lane. The truth is, they are highly unpoetical 
fellows, as well they may be, connected as they are with Grecian 
mythology. At the very mention of their names the forge burns 
dull and dim, as if snow-balls had been suddenly flung into it ; 
the only remedy is to ply the bellows, an operation which I now 
hasten to perform. 

I am in the dingle making a horse-shoe. Having no other 
horses on whose hoofs I could exercise my art, I made my first 
essay on those of my own horse, if that could be called horse 
which horse was none, being only a pony. Perhaps if I had 
sought all England, I should scarcely have found an animal more 
in need of the kind offices of the smith. On three of his feet 
there were no shoes at all, and on the fourth only a remnant of 
one, on which account his hoofs were sadly broken and lacerated 
by his late journeys over the hard and flinty roads. “You 
belonged to a tinker before,” said I, addressing the animal, “ but 
now you belong to a smith. It is said that the household of the 
shoemaker invariably go worse shod than that of any other craft. 
That may be the case of those who make shoes of leather, but it 
sha’n’t be said of the household of him who makes shoes of iron ; 
at any rate, it sha’n’t be said of mine. I tell you what, my gry, 
whilst you continue with me, you shall both be better shod, and 
better fed, than you were with your last master.” 

I am in the dingle making a petul ; and I must here observe, 
that whilst I am making a horse-shoe, the reader need not be 
surprised if I speak occasionally in the language of the lord of 
the horse-shoe — Mr. Petulengro. I have for some time past 
been plying the peshota, or bellows, endeavouring to raise up the 
yag, or fire, in my primitive forge. The angar, or coals, are now 
burning fiercely, casting forth sparks and long vagescoe chipes, or 
tongues of flame ; a small bar of sastra, or iron, is lying in the 
fire, to the length of ten or twelve inches, and so far it is hot, very 
hot, exceeding hot, brother. And now you see me, prala, snatch 
the bar of iron, and place the heated end of it upon the covantza, 
or anvil, and forthwith I commence cooring the sastra as hard as 


446 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


if I had been just engaged by a master at the rate of dui caulor, 
or two shillings a day, brother ; and when I have beaten the iron 
till it is nearly cool, and my arm tired, I place it again in the 
angar, and begin again to rouse the fire with the pudamengro, 
which signifies the blowing thing, and is another and more 
common word for bellows, and whilst thus employed I sing a 
gypsy song, the sound of which is wonderfully in unison with the 
hoarse moaning of the pudamengro, and ere the song is finished, 
the iron is again hot and malleable. Behold, I place it once 
more on the covantza, and recommence hammering ; and now I 
am somewhat at fault ; I am in want of assistance ; I want you, 
brother, or some one else, to take the bar out of my hand and 
support it upon the covantza, whilst I, applying a chinomescro, 
or kind of chisel, to the heated iron, cut off with a lusty stroke or 
two of the shukaro baro, or big hammer, as much as is required 
for the petul. But having no one to help me, I go on hammering 
till I have fairly knocked off as much as I want, and then I place 
the piece in the fire, and again apply the bellows, and take up the 
song where I left it off ; and when I have finished the song, I 
take out the iron, but this time with my plaistra, or pincers, and 
then I recommence hammering, turning the iron round and round 
with my pincers: and now I bend the iron, and lo, and behold, 
it has assumed something the outline of a petul. 

I am not going to enter into further details with respect to 
the process — it was rather a wearisome one. I had to contend 
with various disadvantages ; my forge was a rude one, my tools 
might have been better ; I was in want of one or two highly 
necessary implements, but, above all, manual dexterity. Though 
free of the forge, I had not practised the albeytarian art for very 
many years, never since — but stay, it is not my intention to tell 
the reader, at least in this place, how and when I became a 
blacksmith. There was one thing, however, w’hich stood me in 
good stead in my labour, the same thing which through life has 
ever been of incalculable utility to me, and has not unfrequently 
supplied the place of friends, money, and many other things of 
almost equal importance — iron perseverance, without which all 
the advantages of time and circumstance are of very little avail in 
any undertaking. I was determined to make a horse-shoe, and a 
good one, in spite of every obstacle — ay, in spite of dukkerin. 
At the end of four days, during which I had fashioned and 
refashioned the thing at least fifty times, I had made a petul such 
as no master of the craft need have been ashamed of ; with the 
second shoe I had less difficulty, and, by the time I had made 


1825.] 


HORSE-SHOEINCr. 


447 


the fourth, I would have scorned to take off my hat to the best 
smith in Cheshire. 

But I had not yet shod my little gry ; this I proceeded now 
to do. After having first well pared the hoofs with my churi, I 
applied each petul hot, glowing hot to the pindro. Oh, how the 
hoofs hissed; and, oh, the pleasant, pungent odour which 
diffused itself through the dingle, an odour good for an ailing 
spirit. 

I shod the little horse bravely — merely pricked him once, 
slightly, with a cafi, for doing which, I remember, he kicked me 
down ; I was not disconcerted, however, but, getting up, promised 
to be more cautious in future ; and having finished the operation, 
I filed the hoof well with the rin baro ; then dismissed him to 
graze amongst the trees, and, putting my smaller tools into the 
muchtar, I sat down on my stone, and, supporting my arm upon 
my knee, leaned my head upon my hand. Heaviness had come 
over me. 


CHAPTER LXXXI\r. 


Heaviness had suddenly come over me, heaviness of heart, and 
of body also. I had accomplished the task which I had imposed 
upon myself, and now that nothing more remained to do, my 
energies suddenly deserted me, and I felt without strength, and 
without hope. Several causes, perhaps, co-operated to bring 
about the state in which I then felt myself. It is not improbable 
that my energies had been overstrained during the work, the 
progress of which I have attempted to describe ; and every one 
is aware that the results of overstrained energies are feebleness 
and lassitude — want of nourishment might likewise have some- 
thing to do with it. During my sojourn in the dingle, my food 
had been of the simplest and most unsatisfying description, by 
no means calculated to support the exertion which the labour I 
had been engaged upon required ; it had consisted of coarse 
oaten cakes, and hard cheese, and for beverage I had been 
indebted to a neighbouring pit, in which, in the heat of the day, 
I frequently saw, not golden or silver fish, but frogs and eftes 
swimming about. I am, however, inclined to believe that Mrs. 
Hearne’s cake had quite as much to do with the matter as 
insufficient nourishment. I had never entirely recovered from 
the effects of its poison, but had occasionally, especially at night, 
been visited by a grinding pain in the stomach, and my whole 
body had been suffused with cold sweat ; and indeed these 
memorials of the drow have never entirely disappeared — even 
at the present time they display themselves in my system, 
especially after much fatigue of body and excitement of mind. 
So there I sat in the dingle upon my stone, nerveless and hope- 
less, by whatever cause or causes that state had been produced 
— there I sat with my head leaning upon my hand, and so I 
continued a long, long time. At last I lifted my head from 
my hand, and began to cast anxious, unquiet looks about the 
dingle — the entire hollow was now enveloped in deep shade— 
I cast my eyes up ; there was a golden gleam on the tops of the 
trees which grew towards the upper parts of the dingle, but lower 

( 443 ) 


THE HORRORS. 


449 


1825.] 


down all was gloom and twilight, yet, when I first sat down on 
my stone, the sun was right above the dingle, illuminating all its 
depths by the rays which it cast perpendicularly down, so I 
must have sat a long, long time upon my stone. And now, 
once more, I rested my head upon my hand, but almost instantly 
lifted it again in a kind of fear, and began looking at the objects 
before me, the forge, the tools, the branches of the trees, en- 
deavouring to follow their rows, till they were lost in the darkness 
of the dingle; and now I found my right hand grasping con- 
vulsively the three forefingers of the left, first collectively, and 
then successively, wringing them till the joints cracked ; then I 
became quiet, but not for long. 

Suddenly I started up, and could scarcely repress the shriek 
which was rising to my lips. Was it possible? Yes, all too 
certain ; the evil one was upon me ; the inscrutable horror which 
I had felt in my boyhood had once more taken possession of me. 
I had thought that it had forsaken me ; that it would never visit 
me again ; that I had outgrown it ; that I might almost bid 
defiance to it ; and I had even begun to think of it without 
horror, as we are in the habit of doing of horrors of which we 
conceive we run no danger ; and, lo ! when least thought of, it 
had seized me again. Every moment I felt it gathering force, 
and making me more wholly its own. What should I do? — 
resist, of course ; and I did resist. I grasped, I tore, and strove 
to fling it from me ; but of what avail were my efforts ? I could 
only have got rid of it by getting rid of myself : it was part of 
myself, or rather it was all myself. I rushed amongst the trees, 
and struck at them with my bare fists, and dashed my head 
against them, but I felt no pain. How could I feel pain with 
that horror upon me ! and then I flung myself on the ground, 
gnawed the earth and swallowed it ; and then I looked round ; 
it was almost total darkness in the dingle, and the darkness 
added to my horror. I could no longer stay there; up I rose 
from the ground, and attempted to escape ; at the bottom of the 
winding path which led up the acclivity I fell over something 
which was lying on the ground ; the something moved, and gave 
a kind of whine. It was my little horse, which had made that 
place its lair; my little horse, my only companion and friend 
in that now awful solitude. I reached the mouth of the dingle ; 
the sun was just sinking in the far west, behind me ; the fields 
were flooded with his last gleams. How beautiful everything 
looked in the last gleams of the sun! I felt relieved for a 
moment; I was no longer in the horrid dingle; in another 

29 


45 ° 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


minute the sun was gone, and a big cloud occupied the place 
where he had been ; in a little time it was almost as dark as it 
had previously been in the open part of the dingle. My horror 
increased ; what was I to do ? — it was of no use fighting against 
the horror, that I saw ; the more I fought against it, the stronger 
it became. What should I do: say my prayers? Ah ! why not? 
So I knelt down under the hedge, and said, “ Our Father ” ; but 
that was of no use ; and now I could no longer repress cries ; 
the horror was too great to be borne. What should I do : run 
to the nearest town or village, and request the assistance of my 
fellow-men? No! that I was ashamed to do ; notwithstanding 
the horror was upon me, I was ashamed to do that. I knew 
they would consider me a maniac, if I went screaming amongst 
them ; and I did not wish to be considered a maniac. Moreover, 
I knew that I was not a maniac, for I possessed all my reasoning 
powers, only the horror was upon me — the screaming horror ! 
But how were indifferent people to distinguish between madness 
and this screaming horror ? So I thought and reasoned ; and at last 
I determined not to go amongst my fellow-men whatever the 
result might be. I went to the mouth of the dingle, and there 
placing myself on my knees, I again said the Lord’s Prayer ; but it 
was of no use ; praying seemed to have no effect over the horror ; 
the unutterable fear appeared rather to increase than diminish ; 
and I again uttered wild cries, so loud that I was apprehensive 
they would be heard by some chance passenger on the neighbour- 
ing road ; I, therefore, went deeper into the dingle ; I sat down with 
my back against a thorn bush ; the thorns entered my flesh, and 
when I felt them I pressed harder against the bush ; I thought 
the pain of the flesh might in some degree counteract the mental 
agony ; presently I felt them no longer ; the power of the mental 
horror was so great that it was impossible, with that upon me, to 
feel any pain from the thorns. I continued in this posture a long 
time, undergoing what I cannot describe, and would not attempt 
if I were able. Several times I was on the point of starting up 
and rushing anywhere ; but I restrained myself, for I knew I could 
not escape from myself, so why should I not remain in the dingle ? 
so I thought and said to myself, for my reasoning powers were 
still uninjured. At last it appeared to me that the horror was not 
so strong, not quite so strong upon me. Was it possible that it 
was relaxing its grasp, releasing its prey ? O what a mercy ! but 
it could not be — and yet I looked up to heaven, and clasped my 
hands, and said, “ Our Father ” . I said no more, I was too agi- 
tated; and now I was almost sure that the horror had done its worst. 


1825.] 


THE HORRORS. 


45i 


After a little time I arose, and staggered down yet farther into 
the dingle. I again found my little horse on the same spot as 
before ; I put my hand to his mouth, he licked my hand. I flung 
myself down by him and put my arms round his neck ; the 
creature whinned, and appeared to sympathise with me ; what a 
comfort to have any one, even a dumb brute, to sympathise with 
me at such a moment ! I clung to my little horse as if for safety 
and protection. I laid my head on his neck, and felt almost 
calm ; presently the fear returned, but not so wild as before ; it 
subsided, came again, again subsided ; then drowsiness came over 
me, and at last 1 fell asleep, my head supported on the neck of 
the little horse. I awoke ; it was dark, dark night — not a star 
was to be seen — but I felt no fear, the horror had left me. I 
arose from the side of the little horse, and went into my tent, lay 
down, and again went to sleep. 

I awoke in the morning weak and sore, and shuddering at the 
remembrance of what I had gone through on the preceding day ; 
the sun was shining brightly, but it had not yet risen high enough 
to show its head above the trees which fenced the eastern side of 
the dingle, on which account the dingle was wet and dank from 
the dews of the night. I kindled my fire, and, after sitting by it 
for some time to warm my frame, I took some of the coarse food 
which I have already mentioned ; notwithstanding my late struggle 
and the coarseness of the fare, I ate with appetite. My provisions 
had by this time been very much diminished, and I saw that it 
would be speedily necessary, in the event of my continuing to 
reside in the dingle, to lay in a fresh store. After my meal I 
went to the pit and filled a can with water, which I brought to 
the dingle, and then again sat down on my stone. I considered 
what I should next do ; it was necessary to do something, or my 
life in this solitude would be insupportable. What should I do ? 
rouse up my forge and fashion a horse-shoe ? but I wanted nerve 
and heart for such an employment ; moreover, I had no motive 
for fatiguing myself in this manner ; my own horse was shod, no 
other was at hand, and it is hard to work for the sake of working. 
What should I do ? read ? Yes, but I had no other book than 
the Bible which the Welsh Methodist had given me ; well, why 
not read the Bible ? I was once fond of reading the Bible ; ay, 
but those days were long gone by. However, I did not see what 
else I could well do on the present occasion ; so I determined to 
read the Bible ; it was in Welsh — at any rate it might amuse me ; 
so I took the Bible out of the sack in which it was lying in the 
cart, and began to read at the place where I chanced to open it. 


452 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


I opened it at that part where the history of Saul commences. At 
first I read with indifference ; but after some time my attention 
was riveted, and no wonder ; I had come to the visitations of Saul — 
those dark moments of his when he did and said such unaccount- 
able things ; it almost appeared to me that I was reading of 
myself ; I, too, had my visitations, dark as ever his were. Oh, 
how I sympathised with Saul, the tall, dark man ! I had read his 
life before, but it had made no impression on me ; it had never 
occurred to me that I was like him, but I now sympathised with 
Saul, for my own dark hour was but recently passed, and, perhaps, 
would soon return again ; the dark hour came frequently on Saul. 

Time wore away; I finished the book of Saul, and, closing 
the volume, returned it to its place. I then returned to my seat 
on the stone, and thought of what I had read, and what I had 
lately undergone. All at once I thought I felt well-known sensa- 
tions, a cramping of the breast, and a tingling of the soles of the 
feet ; they were what I had felt on the preceding day — they were 
the forerunners of the fear. I sat motionless on my stone : the 
sensations passed away, and the fear came not. Darkness was 
now coming again over the earth ; the dingle was again in deep 
shade ; I roused the fire with the breath of the bellows, and sat 
looking at the cheerful glow ; it was cheering and comforting. 
My little horse came now and lay down on the ground beside the 
forge ; I was not quite deserted. I again ate some of the coarse 
food, and drank plentifully of the water which I had fetched in 
the morning. I then put fresh fuel on the fire, and sat for a long 
time looking on the blaze ; I then went into my tent. 

I awoke, on my own calculation, about midnight — it was pitch 
dark, and there was much fear upon me. 


CHAPTER LXXXV. 


Two mornings after the period to which I have brought the reader 
in the preceding chapter, I sat by my fire at the bottom of the 
dingle. I had just breakfasted, and had finished the last morsel 
of food which I had brought with me to that solitude. 

“What shall I now do?” said I to myself; “shall I continue 
here, or decamp ? This is a sad, lonely spot ; perhaps I had better 
quit it ; but whither should I go ? the wide world is before me, 
but what can I do therein ? I have been in the world already 
without much success. No, I had better remain here ; the place 
is lonely, it is true, but here I am free and independent, and can 
do what I please; but I can’t remain here without food. Well, I 
will find my way to the nearest town, lay in a fresh supply of 
provision, and come back, turning my back upon the world, which 
has turned its back upon me. I don’t see why I should not 
write a little sometimes; I have pens and an ink-horn, and for 
a writing-desk I can place the Bible on my knee. I shouldn’t 
wonder if I could write a capital satire on the world on the back 
of that Bible; but first of all I must think of supplying myself 
with food.” 

I rose up from the stone on which I was seated, determining 
to go to the nearest town with my little horse and cart, and 
procure what I wanted. The nearest town, according to my best 
calculation, lay about five miles distant ; I had no doubt, however, 
that by using ordinary diligence I should be back before evening. 
In order to go lighter, I determined to leave my tent standing as 
it was, and all the things which I had purchased of the tinker, 
just as they were. “ I need not be apprehensive on their 
account,” said I to myself; “nobody will come here to meddle 
with them ; the great recommendation of this place is its perfect 
solitude ; I daresay that I could live here six months without 
seeing a single human visage. I will now harness my little gry 
and be off to the town.” 

At a whistle which I gave, the little gry, which was feeding on 
the bank near the uppermost part of the dingle, came running to 


454 


LA VENGRd. 


[1825. 


me : for by this time he had become so accustomed to me, that 
he would obey my call for all the world as if he had been one of 
the canine species. “ Now,” said I to him, “ we are going to the 
town to buy bread for myself, and oats for you. I am in a hurry 
to be back ; therefore, I pray you to do your best, and to draw 
me and the cart to the town with all possible speed, and to bring 
us back ; if you do your best, I promise you oats on your return. 
You know the meaning of oats, Ambrol ? ” 

Ambrol whinnied as if to let me know that he understood me 
perfectly well, as indeed he well might, as I had never once fed 
him during the time he had been in my possession without saying 
the word in question to him. Now, ambrol, in the Gypsy tongue, 
signifieth a pear. 

So I caparisoned Ambrol, and then, going to the cart, I re- 
moved two or three things from out it into the tent ; I then 
lifted up the shafts, and was just going to call to the pony to come 
and be fastened to them, when I thought I heard a noise. 

I stood stock still supporting the shaft of the little cart in my 
hand, and bending the right side of my face slightly towards the 
ground ; but I could hear nothing. The noise which I thought I 
had heard was not one of those sounds which I was accustomed 
to hear in that solitude : the note of a bird, or the rustling of a 
bough ; it was — there I heard it again, a sound very much re- 
sembling the grating of a wheel amongst gravel. Could it proceed 
from the road ? Oh no, the road was too far distant for me to 
hear the noise of anything moving along it. Again I listened, 
and now I distinctly heard the sound of wheels, which seemed to 
be approaching the dingle; nearer and nearer they drew, and 
presently the sound of wheels was blended with the murmur of 
voices. Anon I heard a boisterous shout, which seemed to pro- 
ceed from the entrance of the dingle. “ Here are folks at hand,” 
said I, letting the shaft of the cart fall to the ground, “ is it possible 
that they can be coming here ? ” 

My doubts on that point, if I entertained any, were soon dis- 
pelled ; the wheels, which had ceased moving for a moment or 
two, were once again in motion, and were now evidently moving 
down the winding path which led to my retreat. Leaving my 
cart, I came forward and placed myself near the entrance of the 
open space, with my eyes fixed on the path down which my 
unexpected, and I may say unwelcome, visitors were coming. 
Presently I heard a stamping or sliding, as if of a horse in some 
difficulty ; and then a loud curse, and the next moment appeared 
a man and a horse and cart ; the former holding the head of the 


1825.] 


UNWELCOME GUESTS . 


455 


horse up to prevent him from falling, of which he was in danger, 
owing to the precipitous nature of the path. Whilst thus occupied, 
the head of the man was averted from me. When, however, he 
had reached the bottom of the descent, he turned his head, and 
perceiving me, as I stood bareheaded, without either coat or waist- 
coat, about two yards from him, he gave a sudden start, so violent, 
that the backward motion of his hand had nearly flung the horse 
upon his haunches. 

“Why don’t you move forward?” said a voice from behind, 
apparently that of a female, “ you are stopping up the way, and 
we shall be all down upon one another; ” and I saw the head of 
another horse overtopping the back of the cart. 

“ Why don’t you move forward, Jack?” said another voice, 
also of a female, yet higher up the path. 

The man stirred not, but remained staring at me in the posture 
which he had assumed on first perceiving me, his body very much 
drawn back, his left foot far in advance of his right, and with his 
right hand still grasping the halter of the horse, which gave way 
more and more, till it was clean down on his haunches. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” .said the voice which I had last 
heard. 

“ Get back with you, Belle, Moll,” said the man, still staring 
at me, “ here’s something not over-canny or comfortable.” 

“ What is it? ” said the same voice ; “ let me pass, Moll, and 
I’ll soon clear the way,” and I heard a kind of rushing down the 
path. 

“ You need not be afraid,” said I, addressing myself to the 
man, “ I mean you no harm ; I am a wanderer like yourself — 
come here to seek for shelter — you need not be afraid ; I am a 
Roman chabo by matriculation — one of the right sort, and no mis- 
take. Good-day to ye, brother ; I bid ye welcome.” 

The man eyed me suspiciously for a moment, then turning 
to his horse with a loud curse, he pulled him up from his haunches, 
and led him and the cart farther down to one side of the dingle, 
muttering as he passed me, “ afraid. Hm ! ” 

I do not remember ever to have seen a more ruffianly-looking 
fellow ; he was about six feet high, with an immensely athletic 
frame; his face was black and bluff, and sported an immense 
pair of whiskers, but with here and there a grey hair, for his age 
could not be much under fifty. He wore a faded blue frock-coat, 
corduroys, and highlows ; on his black head was a kind of red 
nightcap; round his bull neck a Barcelona handkerchief — I did not 
like the look of the man at all. 


45 ^ 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“Afraid,” growled the fellow, proceeding to unharness his 
horse; “that was the word, I think.” 

But other figures were now already upon the scene. Dashing 
past the other horse and cart, which by this time had reached the 
bottom of the pass, appeared an exceedingly tall woman, or rather 
girl, for she could scarcely have been above eighteen ; she was 
dressed in a tight bodice, and a blue stuff gown ; hat, bonnet or 
cap she had none, and her hair, which was flaxen, hung down on 
her shoulders unconfined ; her complexion was fair, and her 
features handsome, with a determined but open expression. She 
was followed by another female, about forty, stout and vulgar- 
looking, at whom I scarcely glanced, my whole attention being 
absorbed by the tall girl. 

“What’s the matter, Jack?” said the latter, looking at the 
man. 

“ Only afraid, that’s all,” said the man, still proceeding with 
his work. 

“Afraid at what — at that lad? why, he looks like a ghost. 
I would engage to thrash him with one hand.” 

“You might beat me with no hands at all,” said I, “ fair 
damsel, only by looking at me ; I never saw such a face and 
figure, both regal. Why, you look like Ingeborg, Queen of Nor- 
way ; she had twelve brothers, you know, and could lick them 
all, though they were heroes : — 

‘ On Dovrefeld in Norway, 

Were once together seen, 

The twelve heroic brothers 
Of Ingeborg the queen.’ ” 

“ None of your chaffing, young fellow,” said the tall girl, “ or 
I will give you what shall make you wipe your face ; be civil, or 
you will rue it.” 

“Well, perhaps I was a peg too high,” said I ; “ I ask your 
pardon — here’s something a bit lower: — 

‘As I was jawing to the gav yeck divvus 
I met on the drom miro Rommany chi — ’ ” 

“ None of your Rommany chies, young fellow,” said the tall 
girl, looking more menacingly than before and clenching her 
fist, “you had better be civil, I am none of your chies; and 
though I keep company with gypsies, or, to speak more proper, 
half and halfs, I would have you to know that I come of Christian 
blood and parents, and was born in the great house of Long 
Melford.” 

“I have no doubt,” said I, “that it was a great house; 


i825-] 


THE FLAMING TINMAN. 


457 


judging from your size, I shouldn’t wonder if you were born in 
a church/’ 

“ Stay, Belle,” said the man, putting himself before the young 
virago, who was about to rush upon me, “ my turn is first ; ” then, 
advancing to me in a menacing attitude, he said, with a look of 
deep malignity, “ Afraid was the word, wasn’t it ? ” 

“ It was,” said I, “ but I think I wronged you ; I should have 
said, aghast, you exhibited every symptom of one labouring under 
uncontrollable fear.” 

The fellow stared at me with a look of stupid ferocity, and 
appeared to be hesitating whether to strike or not ; ere he could 
make up his mind, the tall girl started forward, crying, “ He’s 
chaffing, let me at him ” ; and, before I could put myself on my 
guard, she struck me a blow on the face which had nearly brought 
me to the ground. 

“ Enough,” said I, putting my hand to my cheek ; “ you have 
now performed your promise, and made me wipe my face ; now 
be pacified, and tell me fairly the grounds of this quarrel.” 

“ Grounds ! ” said the fellow ; “ didn’t you say I was afraid ? 
and if you hadn’t, who gave you leave to camp on my ground ? ” 

“ Is it your ground?” said I. 

“A pretty question,” said the fellow; “as if all the world 
didn’t know that. Do you know who I am?” 

“ I guess I do,” said I ; “ unless I am much mistaken, you 
are he whom folks call the ‘ Flaming Tinman ’. To tell you the 
truth, I’m glad we have met, for I wished to see you. These are 
your two wives, I suppose ; I greet them. There’s no harm done 
— there’s room enough here for all of us — we shall soon be good 
friends, I dare say ; and when we are a little better acquainted, 
I’ll tell you my history.” 

“ Well, if that doesn’t beat all,” said the fellow. 

“ I don’t think he’s chaffing now,” said the girl, whose anger 
seemed to have subsided on a sudden; “the young man speaks 
civil enough.” 

“Civil,” said the fellow with an oath; “but that’s just like 
you ; with you it is a blow, and all over. Civil ! I suppose you 
would have him stay here, and get into all my secrets, and hear 
all I may have to say to my two morts.” 

“Two morts! ” said the girl, kindling up, “ where are they? 
Speak for one, and no more. I am no mort of yours, whatever 
some one else may be. I tell you one thing, Black John, or 
Anselo, for t’other an’t your name, the same thing I told the 
young man here: be civil, or you will rue it.” 


45 « 


LA VBNGRO. 


[1825. 


The fellow looked at the girl furiously, but his glance soon 
quailed before hers ; he withdrew his eyes, and cast them on my 
little horse, which was feeding amongst the trees. “What's 
this ? ” said he, rushing forward and seizing the animal. “ Why, 
as I am alive, this is the horse of that mumping villain Slingsby.” 

“ It’s his no longer ; I bought it and paid for it.” 

“ It’s mine now,” said the fellow; “ I swore I would seize it 
the next time I found it on my beat ; ay, and beat the master 
too.” 

“ I am not Slingsby.” 

“All’s one for that.” 

“ You don’t say you will beat me ? ” 

“ Afraid was the word.” 

“ I’m sick and feeble.” 

“ Hold up your fists.” 

“ Won’t the horse satisfy you ? ” 

“ Horse nor bellows either.” 

“ No mercy, then.” 

“ Here’s at you.” 

“ Mind your eyes, Jack. There, you’ve got it. I thought 
so,” shouted the girl, as the fellow staggered back from a sharp 
blow in the eye. “ I thought he was chaffing at you all along.” 

“Never mind, Anselo. You know what to do — go in,” said 
the vulgar woman, who had hitherto not spoken a word, but who 
now came forward with all the look of a fury ; “ go in apopli ; 
you’ll smash ten like he.” 

The Flaming Tinman took her advice, and came in, bent on 
smashing, but stopped short on receiving a left-handed blow on 
the nose. 

“ You’ll never beat the Flaming Tinman in that way,” said the 
girl, looking at me doubtfully. 

And so I began to think myself, when, in the twinkling of an 
eye, the Flaming Tinman disengaging himself of his frock-coat, 
and, dashing off his red night-cap, came rushing in more desper- 
ately than ever. To a flush hit which he received in the mouth 
he paid as little attention as a wild bull would have done ; in a 
moment his arms were around me, and in another, he had hurled 
me down, falling heavily upon me. The fellow’s strength ap- 
peared to be tremendous. 

“Pay him off now,” said the vulgar woman. The Flaming 
Tinman made no reply, but planting his knee on my breast, 
seized my throat with two huge horny hands. I gave myself up 
for dead, and probably should have been so in another minute 


1825.] 


LONG MELFORD. 


459 


but for the tall girl, who caught hold of the handkerchief which 
the fellow wore round his neck with a grasp nearly as powerful as 
that with which he pressed my throat. 

“ Do you call that fair play ? ” said she. 

“Hands off, Belle,” said the other woman; “do you call it 
fair play to interfere? hands off, or I’ll be down upon you myself.” 

But Belle paid no heed to the injunction, and tugged so hard 
at the handkerchief that the Flaming Tinman was nearly 
throttled ; suddenly relinquishing his hold of me, he started on 
his feet, and aimed a blow at my fair preserver, who avoided it, 
but said coolly : — 

“ Finish t’other business first, and then I’m your woman 
whenever you like ; but finish it fairly — no foul play when I’m 
by — I’ll be the boy’s second, and Moll can pick you up when he 
happens to knock you down.” 

The battle during the next ten minutes raged with consider- 
able fury : but it so happened that during this time I was never 
able to knock the Flaming Tinman down, but on the contrary 
received six knock-down blows myself. “ I can never stand 
this,” said I, as I sat on the knee of Belle, “ I am afraid I must 
give in ; the Flaming Tinman hits very hard,” and I spat out a 
mouthful of blood. 

“Sure enough you’ll never beat the Flaming Tinman in the 
way you fight — it’s of no use flipping at the Flaming Tinman 
with your left hand; why don’t you use your right?” 

“ Because I’m not handy with it,” said I ; and then getting 
up, I once more confronted the Flaming Tinman, and struck him 
six blows for his one, but they were all left-handed blows, and the 
blow which the Flaming Tinman gave me knocked me off my 
legs. 

“Now, will you use Long Melford?” said Belle, picking me 
up. 

“ I don’t know what you mean by Long Melford,” said I, 
gasping for breath. 

“Why, this long right of yours,” said Belle, feeling my right 
arm — “ if you do, I shouldn’t wonder if you yet stand a chance.” 

And now the Flaming Tinman was once more ready, much 

more ready than myself. I, however, rose from my second’s 

knee as well as my weakness would permit me; on he came, 

striking left and right, appearing almost as fresh as to wind 

and spirit as when he first commenced the combat, though his 
eyes were considerably swelled, and his nether lip was cut in two ; 
on he came, striking left and right, and I did not like his blows 


460 


LA VENGKO. 


[1825. 


at all, or even the wind of them, which was anything but agree- 
able, and I gave way before him. At last he aimed a blow 
which, had it taken full effect, would doubtless have ended the 
battle, but owing to his slipping, the fist only grazed my left 
shoulder, and came with terrific force against a tree, close to 
which I had been driven ; before the Tinman could recover him- 
self, I collected all my strength, and struck him beneath the ear, 
and then fell to the ground completely exhausted, and it so 
happened that the blow which I struck the tinker beneath the 
ear was a right-handed blow. 

“ Hurrah for Long Melford ! ” I heard Belle exclaim ; “ there 
is nothing like Long Melford for shortness all the world over.” 

At these words I turned round my head as I lay, and per- 
ceived the Flaming Tinman stretched upon the ground apparently 
senseless. " He is dead,” said the vulgar woman, as she vainly 
endeavoured to raise him up ; “ he is dead ; the best man in all 
the north country, killed in this fashion, by a boy.” Alarmed at 
these words, I made shift to get on my feet ; and, with the 
assistance of the woman, placed my fallen adversary in a sitting 
posture. I put my hand to his heart, and felt a slight pulsation. 
“ He’s not dead,” said I, “ only stunned ; if he were let blood, he 
would recover presently.” I produced a penknife which I had 
in my pocket, and, baring the arm of the Tinman, was about to 
make the necessary incision, when the woman gave me a violent 
blow, and, pushing me aside, exclaimed : “ I’ll tear the eyes out 
of your head, if you offer to touch him. Do you want to complete 
your work, and murder him outright, now he’s asleep? you have 
had enough of his blood already.” “ You are mad,” said I, “ I 
only seek to do him service. Well, if you won’t let him be 
blooded, fetch some water and fling it in his face, you know 
where the pit is.” 

“ A pretty manoeuvre,” said the woman ; “ leave my husband 
in the hands of you and that limmer, who has never been true to 
us ; I should find him strangled or his throat cut when I came 
back.” “ Do you go,” said I, to the tall girl, “ take the can and 
fetch some water from the pit.” “ You had better go yourself,” 
said the girl, wiping a tear as she looked on the yet senseless form 
of the tinker ; “ you had better go yourself, if you think water will 
do him good.” I had by this time somewhat recovered my 
exhausted powers, and, taking the can, I bent my steps as fast as 
I could to the pit ; arriving there, I lay down on the brink, took 
a long draught, and then plunged my head into the water ; after 
which I filled the can, and bent my way back to the dingle. 


1825.] 


FAIR PLAY. 


46 


Before I could reach the path which led down into its depths, I 
had to pass some way along its side; I had arrived at a part 
immediately over the scene of the last encounter, where the bank, 
overgrown with trees, sloped precipitously down. Here I heard 
a loud sound of voices in the dingle ; I stopped, and laying hold 
of a tree, leaned over the bank and listened. The two women 
appeared to be in hot dispute in the dingle. “ It was all owing 
to you, you limmer,” said the vulgar woman to the other; “ had 
you not interfered, the old man would soon have settled the boy.” 

“ I’m for fair play and Long Melford,” said the other. “ If 
your old man, as you call him, could have settled the boy fairly, 
he might, for all I should have cared, but no foul work for me ; 
and as for sticking the boy with our gulleys when he comes back, 
as you proposed, I am not so fond of your old man or you that I 
should oblige you in it, to my soul’s destruction.” “ Hold your 

tongue, or I’ll ” ; I listened no farther, but hastened as fast as I 

could to the dingle. My adversary had just begun to show signs 
of animation ; the vulgar woman was still supporting him, and 
occasionally cast glances of anger at the tall girl who was walking 
slowly up and down. I lost no time in dashing the greater part 
of the water into the Tinman’s face, whereupon he sneezed, moved 
his hands, and presently looked round him. At first his looks 
were dull and heavy, and without any intelligence at all ; he soon, 
however, began to recollect himself, and to be conscions of his 
situation ; he cast a scowling glance at me, then one of the deepest 
malignity at the tall girl, who was still walking about without 
taking much notice of what was going forward. At last he looked 
at his right hand, which had evidently suffered from the blow 
against the tree, and a half-stifled curse escaped his lips. The 
vulgar woman now said something to him in a low tone, where- 
upon he looked at her for a moment, and then got upon his legs. 
Again the vulgar woman said something to him ; her looks were 
furious, and she appeared to be urging him on to attempt some- 
thing. I observed that she had a clasped knife in her hand. 
The fellow remained standing for some time as if hesitating what 
to do ; at last he looked at his hand, and, shaking his head, said 
something to the woman which I did not understand. The tall 
girl, however, appeared to overhear him, and, probably repeating 
his words, said : “ No, it won’t do ; you are right there, and now 
hear what I have to say, — let bygones be bygones, and let us all 
shake hands, and camp here, as the young man was saying just 
now ”. The man looked at her, and then, without any reply, 
went to his horse, which was lying down among the trees, and 


462 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


kicking it up, led it to the cart, to which he forthwith began to 
harness it. The other cart and horse had remained standing 
motionless during the whole affair which I have been recounting, 
at the bottom of the pass. The woman now took the horse by 
the head, and leading it with the cart into the open part of the 
dingle turned both round, and then led them back, till the horse 
and cart had mounted a little way up the assent ; she then stood 
still and appeared to be expecting the man. During this proceed- 
ing Belle had stood looking on without saying anything ; at last, 
perceiving that the man had harnessed his horse to the other cart, 
and that both he and the woman were about to take their de- 
parture, she said : “ You are not going, are you ? ” Receiving no 
answer, she continued : “I tell you what, both of you, Black 
John, and you Moll, his mort, this is not treating me over civilly, 
— however, I am ready to put up with it, and to go with you if you 
like, for I bear no malice. I’m sorry for what has happened, but 
you have only yourselves to thank for it. Now, shall I go with 
you, only tell me ? ” The man made no manner of reply, but 
flogged his horse. The woman, however, whose passions were 
probably under less control, replied, with a screeching tone : 
“ Stay where you are, you jade, and may the curse of Judas cling 
to you, — stay with the bit of a mullo whom you helped, and my 

only hope is that he may gulley you before he comes to be 

Have you with us, indeed ! after what’s past, no, nor nothing 
belonging to you. Fetch down your mailla go-cart and live here 
with your chabo.” She then whipped on the horse, and ascended 
the pass, followed by the man. The carts were light, and they 
were not long in ascending the winding path. I followed to see 
that they took their departure. Arriving at the top, I found near 
the entrance a small donkey cart, which I concluded belonged to 
the girl. The tinker and his mort were already at some distance ; 
I stood looking after them for a little time, then taking the donkey 
by the reins I led it with the cart to the bottom of the dingle. 
Arrived there, I found Belle seated on the stone by the fireplace. 
Her hair was all dishevelled, and she was in tears. 

“ They were bad people,” said she, “ and I did not like them, 
but they were my only acquaintance in the wide world.” 


CHAPTER LXXXVI. 


In the evening of that same day the tall girl and I sat at tea by 
the fire, at the bottom of the dingle ; the girl on a small stool, 
and myself, as usual, upon my stone. 

The water which served for the tea had been taken from a 
spring of pellucid water in the neighbourhood, which I had not 
had the good fortune to discover, though it was well known to my 
companion, and to the wandering people who frequented the 
dingle. 

“This tea is very good,” said I, “but I cannot enjoy it as 
much as if I were well : I feel very sadly.” 

“ How else should you feel,” said the girl, “ after fighting 
with the Flaming Tinman? All I wonder at is that you can feel 
at all! As for the tea, it ought to be good, seeing that it cost 
me ten shillings a pound.” 

“ That’s a great deal for a person in your station to pay.” 

“In my station! I’d have you to know, young man — how- 
ever, I haven’t the heart to quarrel with you, you look so ill ; and 
after all, it is a good sum for one to pay who travels the roads ; 
but if I must have tea, I like to have the best ; and tea I must 
have, for I am used to it, though I can’t help thinking that it 
sometimes fills my head with strange fancies — what some folks 
call vapours, making me weep and cry.” 

“ Dear me,” said I, “ I should never have thought that one of 
your size and fierceness would weep and cry ! ” 

“ My size and fierceness ! I tell you what, young man, you 
are not over civil this evening ; but you are ill, as I said before, 
and I sha’n’t take much notice of your language, at least for the 
present ; as for my size, I am not so much bigger than yourself ; 
and as for being fierce, you should be the last one to fling that at 
me. It is well for you that I can be fierce sometimes. If I 
hadn’t taken your part against Blazing Bosville, you wouldn’t be 
now taking tea with me.” 

“ It is true that you struck me in the face first ; but we’ll let 
that pass. So that man’s name is Bosville ; what’s your own ? ” 

(463) 


4 6 4 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“ Isopel Berners,” 

“How did you get that name ? ” 

“ I say, young man, you seem fond of asking questions ! will 
you have another cup of tea? ” 

“ I was just going to ask for another.” 

“ Well, then, here it is, and much good may it do you ; as for 
my name, I got it from my mother.” 

“ Your mother’s name, then, was Isopel ? ” 

“ Isopel Berners.” 

“ But had you never a father? ” 

“Yes, I had a father,” said the girl, sighing, “but I don’t 
bear his name.” 

“Is it the fashion, then, in your country for children to bear 
their mother’s name ? ” 

“ If you ask such questions, young man, I shall be angry with 
you. I have told you my name, and whether my father’s or 
mother’s, I am not ashamed of it.” 

“ It is a noble name.” 

“ There you are right, young man. The chaplain in the great 
house where I was born, told me it was a noble name ; it was 
odd enough, he said, that the only three noble names in the 
county were to be found in the great house ; mine was one ; the 
other two were Devereux and Bohun.” 

“ What do you mean by the great house ? ” 

“ The workhouse.” 

“ Is it possible that you were born there? ” 

“Yes, young man; and as you now speak softly and kindly, 
I will tell you my whole tale. My father was an officer of the 
sea, and was killed at sea as he was coming home to marry my 
mother, Isopel Berners. He had been acquainted with her, and 
had left her ; but after a few months he wrote her a letter, to say 
that he had no rest, and that he repented, and that as soon as 
his ship came to port he would do her all the reparation in his 
power. Well, young man, the very day before they reached port 
they met the enemy, and there was a fight, and my father was 
killed, after he had struck down six of the enemy’s crew on their 
own deck ; for my father was a big man, as I have heard, and 
knew tolerably well how to use his hands. And when my 
mother heard the news, she became half distracted, and ran away 
into the fields and forests, totally neglecting her business, for she 
was a small milliner ; and so she ran demented about the meads 
and forests for a long time, now sitting under a tree, and now by 
the side of a river — at last she flung herself into some water, and 


1825.] 


ISOPEL BERNERS. 


465 


would have been drowned, had not some one been at hand and 
rescued her, whereupon she was conveyed to the great house, 
lest she should attempt to do herself further mischief, for she 
had neither friends nor parents — and there she died three months 
after, having first brought me into the world. She was a sweet, 
pretty creature, I’m told, but hardly fit for this world, being 
neither large, nor fierce, nor able to take her own part. So I 
was born and bred in the great house, where I learnt to read 
and sew, to fear God, and to take my own part. When I 
was fourteen I was put out to service to a small farmer and his 
wife, with whom, however, I did not stay long, for I was half 
starved, and otherwise ill-treated, especially by my mistress, who 
one day attempting to knock me down with a besom, I knocked 
her down with my fist, and went back to the great house.” 

“ And how did they receive you in the great house ? ” 

“ Not very kindly, young man — on the contrary, I was put 
into a dark room, where I was kept a fortnight on bread and 
water; I did not much care, however, being glad to have got 
back to the great house at any rate, the place where I was born, 
and where my poor mother died, and in the great house I con- 
tinued two years longer, reading and sewing, fearing God, and 
taking my own part when necessary. At the end of the two 
years I was again put out to service, but this time to a rich 
farmer and his wife, with whom, however, I did not live long, 
less time, I believe, than with the poor ones, being obliged to 
leave for ” 

“ Knocking your mistress down ? ” 

“ No, young man, knocking my master down, who conducted 
himself improperly towards me. This time I did not go back to 
the great house, having a misgiving that they would not receive 
me, so I turned my back to the great house where I was born, 
and where my poor mother died, and wandered for several days, 

I know not whither, supporting myself on a few halfpence which 
I chanced to have in my pocket. It happened one day, as I sat 
under a hedge crying, having spent my last farthing, that a 
comfortable-looking elderly woman came up in a cart, and seeing 
the state in which I was, she stopped and asked what was the 
matter with me ; I told her some part of my story, whereupon 
she said : * Cheer up, my dear, if you like you shall go with me, 
and wait upon me ’. Of course I wanted little persuasion, so I 
got into the cart and went with her. She took me to London 
and various other places, and I soon found that she was a 
travelling woman, who went about the country with silks and 

30 


466 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


linen. I was of great use to her, more especially in those places 
where we met evil company. Once, as we were coming from 
Dover, we were met by two sailors, who stopped our cart, and 
would have robbed and stripped us. ‘ Let me get down,’ said I ; 
so I got down, and fought with them both, till they turned round 
and ran away. Two years I lived with the old gentlewoman who 
was very kind to me, almost as kind as a mother ; at last she fell 
sick at a place in Lincolnshire, and after a few days died, leaving 
me her cart and stock in trade, praying me only to see her 
decently buried, which I did, giving her a funeral fit for a gentle- 
woman. After which I travelled the country melancholy enough 
for want of company, but so far fortunate, that I could take my 
own part when anybody was uncivil to me. At last, passing 
through the valley of Todmorden, I formed the acquaintance of 
Blazing Bosville and his wife, with whom I occasionally took 
journeys for company’s sake, for it is melancholy to travel about 
alone, even when one can take one’s own part. I soon found 
they were evil people ; but, upon the whole, they treated me 
civilly, and I sometimes lent them a little money, so that we got 
on tolerably well together. He and I, it is true, had once a 
dispute, and nearly came to blows, for once, when we were alone, 
he wanted me to marry him, promising if I would, to turn off 
Grey Moll, or if I liked it better, to make her wait upon me as 
a maid-servant ; I never liked him much, but from that hour less 
than ever. Of the two, I believe Grey Moll to be the best, for 
she is at any rate true and faithful to him, and I like truth and 
constancy, don’t you, young man ? ” 

“Yes,” said I, “they are very nice things. I feel very 
strangely.” 

“ How do you feel, young man ? ” 

“ Very much afraid.” 

“Afraid, at what? At the Flaming Tinman? Don’t be 
afraid of him. He won’t come back, and if he did, he shouldn’t 
touch you in this state. I'd fight him for you, but he won't 
come back, so you needn’t be afraid of him.” 

“ I’m not afraid of the Flaming Tinman.” 

“ What, then, are you afraid of ? ” 

“ The evil one.” 

“ The evil one,” said the girl, “ where is he ? ” 

“ Coming upon me.” 

“ Never heed,” said the girl, “ I’ll stand by you.” 


CHAPTER LXXXV1I. 


The kitchen of the public-house was a large one, and many 
people were drinking in it : there was a confused hubbub of 
voices. 

I sat down on a bench behind a deal table, of which there were 
three or four in the kPchen ; presently a bulky man, in a green 
coat, of the Newmarket cut, and without a hat, entered, and 
observing me, came up, and in rather a gruff tone cried : “ Want 
anything, young fellow?” 

“ Bring me a jug of ale,” said I, “if you are the master, as I 
suppose you are, by that same coat of yours, and your having no hat 
on your head.” 

“ Don’t be saucy, young fellow,” said the landlord, for such 

he was, “ don’t be saucy, or ” Whatever he intended to say, 

he left unsaid, for fixing his eyes upon one of my hands, which I 
had placed by chance upon the table, he became suddenly still. 

This w r as my left hand, which was raw and swollen, from the 
blows dealt on a certain hard skull in a recent combat. “ What do 
you mean by staring at my hand so ? ” said I, withdrawing it from 
the table. 

“ No offence, young man, no offence,” said the landlord, in a 

quite altered tone ; “ but the sight of your hand ,” then 

observing that our conversation began to attract the notice of the 
guests in the kitchen, he interrupted himself, saying in an under 
tone : “ But mum’s the word for the present, I will go and 
fetch the ale.” 

In about a minute he returned, with a jug of ale foaming high. 
“ Here’s your health,” said he, blowing off the foam, and drinking; 
but perceiving that I looked rather dissatisfied, he murmured: 
“ All’s right, I glory in you ; but mum’s the word.” Then 
placing the jug on the table, he gave me a confidential nod, and 
swaggered out of the room. 

What can the silly, impertinent fellow mean, thought I ; but 
the ale was now before me, and I hastened to drink, for my weak- 
ness was great, and my mind was full of dark thoughts, the 

(467) 


4 68 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


remains of the indescribable horror of the preceding night. It 
may kill me, thought I, as I drank deep, but who cares, anything 
is better than what I have suffered. I drank deep, and then leaned 
back against the wall ; it appeared as if a vapour was stealing up 
into my brain, gentle and benign, soothing and stilling the 
horror and the fear ; higher and higher it mounted, and I felt 
nearly overcome ; but the sensation was delicious, compared with 
that I had lately experienced, and now I felt myself nodding ; and 
bending down I laid my head on the table on my folded hands. 

And in that attitude I remained some time, perfectly un- 
conscious. At length, by degrees, perception returned, and I 
lifted up my head. I felt somewhat dizzy and bewildered, but 
the dark shadow had withdrawn itself from me. And now, once 
more, I drank of the jug ; this second draught did not produce an 
overpowering effect upon me — it revived and strengthened me. 
I felt a new man. 

I looked around me : the kitchen had been deserted by the 
greater part of the guests ; besides myself, only four remained ; 
these were seated at the farther end. One was haranguing fiercely 
and eagerly ; he was abusing England, and praising America. At 
last he exclaimed : “ So when I gets to New York, I will toss up 
my hat, and damn the King 

That man must be a Radical, thought I. 


CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 


The individual whom I supposed to be a radical, after a short 
pause, again uplifted his voice : he was rather a strong-built fellow 
of about thirty, with an ill-favoured countenance, a white hat on his 
head, a snuff-coloured coat on his back, and, when he was not 
speaking, a pipe in his mouth. “Who would live in such a 
country as England?” he shouted. 

“ There is no country like America,” said his nearest 
neighbour, a man also in a white hat, and of a very ill-favoured 
countenance, “there is no country like America,” said he, with- 
drawing a pipe from his mouth ; “ I think I shall ” — and here he 
took a draught from a jug, the contents of which he appeared to 
have in common with the other, — “ go to America one of these 
days myself.” 

“ Poor old England is not such a bad country, after all,” said 
a third, a simple-looking man in a labouring dress, who sat 
smoking a pipe without anything before him. “ If there was but 
a little more work to be got, I should have nothing to say against 
her. I hope, however ” 

“ You hope, who cares what you hope ? ” interrupted the first, 
in a savage tone ; “ you are one of those sneaking hounds who are 
satisfied with dog’s wages, a bit of bread and a kick. Work, 
indeed ! who, with the spirit of a man, would work for a country 
where there is neither liberty of speech, nor of action? a land full 
of beggarly aristocracy, hungry borough-mongers, insolent parsons, 

and ‘ their wives and daughters,’ as William Cobbett says, in 

his Register." 

“ Ah, the Church of England has been a source of incalcul- 
able mischief to these realms,” said another. 

The person who uttered these words sat rather aloof from 
the rest ; he was dressed in a long black surtout. I could not 
see much of his face, partly owing to his keeping it very much 
directed to the ground, and partly owing to a large slouched hat, 
which he wore ; I observed, however, that his hair was of a 
reddjsh tinge. On the table near him was a glass and spoon. 


470 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“ You are quite right,” said the first, alluding to what this last 
had said, “ the Church of England has done incalculable mischief 
here. I value no religion three halfpence, for I believe in none ; 
but the one that I hate most is the Church of England ; so when 
I get to New York, after I have shown the fine fellows on the quay 
a spice of me, by — — the King, I’ll toss up my hat again, and 
the Church of England too.” 

“ And suppose the people of New York should clap you in 
the stocks? ” said I. 

These words drew upon me the attention of the whole four. 
The radical and his companion stared at me ferociously ; the 
man in black gave me a peculiar glance from under his slouched 
hat ; the simple-looking man in the labouring dress laughed. 

“ What are you laughing at, you fool ? ” said the radical, 
turning and looking at the other, who appeared to be afraid of 
him, “hold your noise; and a pretty fellow, you,” said he, 
looking at me, “to come here, and speak against the great 
American nation.” 

“ I speak against the great American nation ? ” said I, “ I 
rather paid them a compliment.” 

" By supposing they would put me in the stocks. Well, I call 
it abusing them, to suppose they would do any such thing — 
stocks, indeed ! — there are no stocks in all the land. Put me in 
the stocks ? why, the President will come down to the quay, and 
ask me to dinner, as soon as he hears what I have said about 
the King and the Church.” 

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, “if you go to America, you 
will say of the President and country what now you say of the 
King and Church, and cry out for somebody to send you back 
to England.” 

The radical dashed his pipe to pieces against the table. “ I 
tell you what, young fellow, you are a spy of the aristocracy, sent 
here to kick up a disturbance.” 

“Kicking up a disturbance,” said I, “is rather inconsistent 
with the office of spy. If I were a spy, I should hold my head 
down, and say nothing.” 

The man in black partially raised his head and gave me 
another peculiar glance. 

“Well, if you ar’n’t sent to spy, you are sent to bully, to 
prevent people speaking, and to run down the great American 
nation ; but you sha’n’t bully me. I say down with the aristocracy, 
the beggarly aristocracy. Come, what have you to say to that ? ” 

“ Nothing,” said I. 


1825.] 


THE PUBLIC-HOUSE. 


47 i 


“ Nothing !” repeated the radical. 

“ No,” said I, “down with them as soon as you can.” 

“ As soon as I can ! I wish I could. But I can down with 
a bully of theirs. Come, will you fight for them ? ” 

“No,” said I. 

“ You won’t? ” 

“No,” said I; “though from what I have seen of them I 
should say they are tolerably able to fight for themselves.” 

“You won’t fight for them,” said the radical, triumphantly; 
“ I thought so ; all bullies, especially those of the aristocracy, are 
cowards. Here, landlord,” said he, raising his voice, and striking 
against the table with the jug, “ some more ale — he won’t fight 
for his friends.” 

“A white feather,” said his companion. 

“ He ! he ! ” tittered the man in black. 

“ Landlord, landlord,” shouted the radical, striking the table 
with the jug louder than before. “Who called?” said the land- 
lord, coming in at last. “Fill this jug again,” said the other, 
“and be quick about it.” “Does any one else want anything?” 
said the landlord. “ Yes,” said the man in black ; “ you may 
bring me another glass of gin and water.” “Cold? ’’said the 
landlord. “ Yes,” said the man in black, “ with a lump of sugar 
in it.” 

“Gin and water cold, with a lump of sugar in it,” said I, and 
struck the table with my fist. 

“Take some?” said the landlord, inquiringly. 

“No,” said I, “only something came into my head.” 

“ He’s mad,” said the man in black. 

“ Not he,” said the radical. “ He’s only shamming ; he knows 
his master is here, and therefore has recourse to these manoeuvres, 
but it won’t do. Come, landlord, what are you staring at ? Why 
don’t you obey your orders ? Keeping your customers waiting in 
this manner is not the way to increase your business.” 

The landlord looked at the radical and then at me. At last, 
taking the jug and glass, he left the apartment, and presently 
returned with each filled with its respective liquor. He placed 
the jug with the beer before the radical, and the glass with the 
gin and water before the man in black, and then, with a wink to 
me, he sauntered out. 

“ Here is your health, sir,” said the man of the snuff-coloured 
coat, addressing himself to the man in black, “ I honour you for 
what you said about the Church of England. Every one who 
speaks against the Church of England has my warm heart. Down 


472 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


with it, I say, and may the stones of it be used for mending the 
roads, as my friend William says in his Register .” 

The man in black, with a courteous nod of his head, drank 
to the man in the snuff-coloured coat. “With respect to the 
steeples,” said he, “ I am not altogether of your opinion ; they 
might be turned to better account than to serve to mend the 
roads ; they might still be used as places of worship, but not for 
the worship of the Church of England. I have no fault to find 
with the steeples, it is the church itself which I am compelled to 
arraign ; but it will not stand long, the respectable part of its 
ministers are already leaving it. It is a bad church, a persecuting 
church.” 

“ Whom does it persecute?” said I. 

The man in black glanced at me slightly, and then replied 
slowly, “ the Catholics 

“And do those whom you call Catholics never persecute?” 
said I. 

“ Never,” said the man in black. 

“ Did you ever read Fox’s Book of Martyrs ?” said I. 

“ He ! he ! tittered the man in black, “ there is not a word 
of truth in Fox’s Book of Martyrs.” 

“ Ten times more than in the Flos Sanctorum ,” said I. 

The man in black looked at me, but made no answer. 

“ And what say you to the Massacre of the Albigenses and 
the Vaudois, ‘ whose bones lie scattered on the cold Alp,’ or the 
Revocation of the Edict of Nantes?” 

The man in black made no answer. 

“Go to,” said I, “ it is because the Church of England is not 
a persecuting church, that those whom you call the respectable 
part are leaving her ; it is because they can’t do with the poor 
Dissenters what Simon de Montfort did with the Albigenses, and 
the cruel Piedmontese with the Vaudois, that they turn to bloody 
Rome ; the Pope will no doubt welcome them, for the Pope, do 
you see, being very much in want, will welcome ” 

“ Hollo ! ” said the radical, interfering, “ What are you saying 
about the Pope ? I say hurrah for the Pope ! I value no religion 
three halfpence, as I said before, but if I were to adopt any, it 
should be the Popish, as it’s called, because I conceives the 
Popish to be the grand enemy of the Church of England, of the 
beggarly aristocracy, and the borough-monger system, so I won’t 
hear the Pope abused while I am by. Come, don’t look fierce. You 
won’t fight, you know, I have proved it ; but I will give you another 
chance — I will fight for the Pope, will you fight against him ? ” 


1825.] 


THE PUBLIC-HOUSE. 


473 


** Oh dear me, yes,” said I, getting up and stepping forward. 
“ I am a quiet, peaceable young man, and, being so, am always 
r eady to fight against the Pope — the enemy of all peace and quiet. 
To refuse fighting for the aristocracy is a widely different thing 
from refusing to fight against the Pope — so come on, if you are 
disposed to fight for him. To the Pope broken bells, to Saint 
James broken shells. No Popish vile oppression, but the Pro- 
testant succession. Confusion to the Groyne, hurrah for thef 
Boy ne, for the army at Clonmel, and the Protestant young 
gentlemen who live there as well.” 

“ An Orangeman,” said the man in black. 

“ Not a Platitude,” said I. 

Theman in black gave a slight start. 

“Amongst that family,” said I, “no doubt something may be 
done, but amongst the Methodist preachers I should conceive 
that the success would not be great.” 

The man in black sat quite still. 

“Especially amongst those who have wives,” I added. 

The man in black stretched his hand towards his gin and 
water. 

“ However,” said I, “we shall see what the grand movement 
will bring about, and the results of the lessons in elocution.” 

The man in black lifted the glass up to his mouth, and in 
doing so, let the spoon fall. 

“ But what has this to do with the main question ? ” said I : “I 
am waiting here to fight against the Pope.” 

“Come, Hunter,” said the companion of the man in the 
snuff-coloured coat, “get up, and fight for the Pope.” 

“ I don’t care for the young fellow,” said the man in the 
snuff-coloured coat. 

“I know you don’t,” said the other, “so get up, and serve 
him out.” 

“ I could serve out three like him,” said the man in the 
snuff-coloured coat. 

“ So much the better for you,” said the other, “ the present 
work will be all the easier for you, get up, and serve him out at 
once.” 

The man in the snuff-coloured coat did not stir. 

“Who shows the white feather now?” said the simple- 
looking man. 

“ He ! he ! he ! ” tittered the man in black. 

“Who told you to interfere?” said the radical, turning 
ferociously towards the simple-looking roan ; “ say another word, 


474 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


and I’ll And you ! ” said he, addressing himself to the man 

in black, “a pretty fellow you to turn against me, after I had 
taken your part. I tell you what, you may fight for yourself. I’ll 
see you and your Pope in the pit of Eldon, before I fight for 
either of you, so make the most of it.” 

“Then you won’t fight?” said I. 

“ Not for the Pope,” said the radical ; “ I’ll see the 

Pope ” 

“ Dear me!” said I, “ not fight for the Pope, whose religion 
you would turn to, if you were inclined for any. I see how it is, 
you are not fond of fighting ; but I’ll give you another chance — 
you were, abusing the Church of England just now. I’ll fight for 
it — will you fight against it?” 

“Come, Hunter,” said the other, “get up, and fight against 
the Church of England.” 

“ I have no particular quarrel against the Church of England,” 
said the man in the snuff-coloured coat, “my quarrel is with the 
aristocracy. If I said anything against the church, it was merely 
for a bit of corollary, as Master William Cobbett would say ; the 
quarrel with the church belongs to this fellow in black ; so let 
him carry it on. However,” he continued suddenly, “ I won’t 
slink from the matter either ; it shall never be said by the fine 
fellows on the quay of New York, that I wouldn’t fight against 
the Church of England. So down with the beggarly aristocracy, 
the church, and the Pope, to the bottom of the pit of Eldon, and 
may the Pope fall first, and the others upon him.” 

Thereupon, dashing his hat on the table, he placed himself in 
an attitude of offence, and rushed forward. He was, as 1 have 
said before, a powerful fellow, and might have proved a dangerous 
antagonist, more especially to myself, who, after my recent 
encounter with the Flaming Tinman, and my wrestlings with the 
evil one, was in anything but fighting order. Any collision, how- 
ever, was prevented by the landlord, who, suddenly appearing, 
thrust himself between us. “ There shall be no fighting here,” 
said he, “ no one shall fight in this house, except it be with 
myself ; so if you two have anything to say to each other, you had 
better go into the field behind the house. But, you fool,” said he, 
pushing Hunter violently on the breast, “ do you know whom 
you are going to tackle with ? this is the young chap that beat 
Blazing Bosville, only as late as yesterday, in Mumpers’ Dingle. 
Grey Moll told me all about it last night, when she came for some 
brandy for her husband, who, she said, had been half killed ; and 
she described the young man to me so closely, that I knew him 


1825.] 


IBIDEM. 


475 


at once, that is, as soon as I saw how his left hand was bruised, 
for she told me he was a left-hand hitter. Ar’n’t it all true, young 
man ? Ar’n’t you he that beat Flaming Bosville in Mumpers’ 
Dingle?” “I never beat Flaming Bosville,” said I, “he beat 
himself. Had he not struck his hand against a tree, I shouldn’t 
be here at the present moment.” “ Here ! here ! ” said the 
landlord, “ now that’s just as it should be ; I like a modest man, 
for, as the parson says, nothing sits better upon a young man than 
modesty. I remember, when I was young, fighting with Tom of 
Hopton, the best man that ever pulled off coat in England. I 
remember, too, that I won the battle ; for I happened to hit Tom 
of Hopton, in the mark, as he was coming in, so that he lost his 
wind, and falling squelch on the ground, do ye see, he lost the 
battle, though I am free to confess that he was a better man than 
myself ; indeed, the best man that ever fought in England ; yet 
still I won the battle, as every customer of mine, and everybody 
within twelve miles round, has heard over and over again. Now, 
Mr. Hunter, I have one thing to say, if you choose to go into the 
field behind the house, and fight the young man, you can. I’ll 
back him for ten pounds ; but no fighting in my kitchen — because 
why? I keeps a decent kind of an establishment.” 

“ I have no wish to fight the young man,” said Hunter ; 
“ more especially as he has nothing to say for the aristocracy. If 
he chose to fight for them, indeed — but he won’t, I know ; for I 
see he’s a decent, respectable young man ; and, after all, fighting 
is a blackguard way of settling a dispute ; so I have no wish to 
fight; however, there is one thing I’ll do,” said he, uplifting his 
fist, “ I’ll fight this fellow in black here for half a crown, or for 
nothing, if he pleases ; it was he that got up the last dispute 
between me and the young man, with his Pope and his nonsense; 
so I will fight him for anything he pleases, and perhaps the young 
man will be my second ; whilst you ” 

“Come, doctor,” said the landlord, “or whatsoever you be, 
will you go into the field with Hunter? I’ll second you, only 
you must back yourself. I’ll lay five pounds on Hunter, if you are 
inclined to back yourself ; and will help you to win it as far, do 
you see, as a second can ; because why? I always likes to do the 
fair thing.” 

“ Oh ! I have no wish to fight,” said the man in black hastily ; 
“ fighting is not my trade. If I have given any offence, I beg 
anybody’s pardon.” 

“ Landlord,” said I, “ what have I to pay ? ” 

m Nothing at all,” said the landlord ; “ glad to see you. This 


476 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825, 


is the first time that you have been at my house, and I never charge 
new customers, at least customers such as you, anything for the 
first draught. You’ll come again, I dare say; shall always be 
glad to see you. I won’t take it,” said he, as I put sixpence on 
the table ; “ I won’t take it.” 

“ Yes, you shall,” said I ; “ but not in payment for anything 
I have had myself: it shall serve to pay for a jug of ale for that 
gentleman,” said I, pointing to the simple-looking individual; 
“ he is smoking a poor pipe. I do not mean to say that a pipe is 

a bad thing ; but a pipe without ale, do you see ” 

“ Bravo ! ” said the landlord, “that’s just the conduct I like.” 
“ Bravo ! ” said Hunter. “ I shall be happy to drink with the 
young man whenever I meet him at New York, where, do you 
see, things are better managed than here.” 

“ If I have given offence to anybody, ” said the man in black, 
“I repeat that ! ask pardon, — more especially to the young 
gentleman, who was perfectly right to stand up for his religion, 
just as I — not that I am of any particular religion, no more than 
this honest gentleman here,” bowing to Hunter; “but I happen 
to know something of the Catholics — several excellent friends 
of mine are Catholics — and of a surety the Catholic religion is an 
ancient religion, and a widely extended religion, though it certainly 
is not a universal religion, but it has of late made considerable 
progress, even amongst those nations who have been particularly 
opposed to it — amongst the Prussians and the Dutch, for example, 
to say nothing of the English ; and then, in the East, amongst the 

Persians, amongst the Armenians ” 

“ The Armenians,” said I ; “oh dear me, the Armenians ” 

“Have you anything to say about those people, sir?” said 
the man in black, lifting up his glass to his mouth. 

“I have nothing further to say,” said I, “than that the roots 
of Ararat are occasionally found to be deeper than those of Rome.” 

“There’s half a crown broke,” said the landlord, as the man' 
in black let fall the glass, which was broken to pieces on the floor. 
“ You will pay me the damage, friend, before you leave this kitchen. 

I like to see people drink freely in my kitchen, but not too freely, 
and I hate breakages ; because why ? I keeps a decent kind of an 
establishment,” 


CHAPTER LXXXIX. 


The public-house where the scenes which I have attempted to 
describe in the preceding chapters took place, was at the distance 
of about two miles from the dingle. The sun was sinking in the 
west by the time I returned to the latter spot. I found Belle 
seated by a fire, over which her kettle was suspended. During 
my absence she had prepared herself a kind of tent, consisting 
of large hoops covered over with tarpaulin, quite impenetrable to 
rain, however violent. “I am glad you are returned,” said she, 
as soon as she perceived me ; “ I began to be anxious about 
you. Did you take my advice?” 

“Yes,” said I; “I went to the public-house and drank ale 
as you advised me ; it cheered, strengthened, and drove away 
the horror from my mind — I am much beholden to you.” 

“ I knew it would do you good,” said Belle ; “I remembered 
that when the poor woman in the great house were afflicted with 
hysterics and fearful imaginings, the surgeon, who was a good, 
kind man, used to say : 1 Ale, give them ale, and let it be strong’.” 

“ He was no advocate for tea, then ? ” said I. 

“ He had no objection to tea; but he used to say, ‘ Every- 
thing in its season ’. Shall we take ours now — I have waited for 
you.” 

“ I have no objection,” said I ; “ I feel rather heated, and at 
present should prefer tea to ale — ‘ Everything in its season,’ as 
the surgeon said.” 

Thereupon Belle prepared tea, and, as we were taking it, she 
said : “ What did you see and hear at the public-house ? ” 

“ Really,” said I, “ you appear to have your full portion of 
curiosity ; what matters it to you what I saw and heard at the 
public-house ? ” 

“ It matters very little to me,” said Belle ; “ I merely inquired 
of you, for the sake of a little conversation — you were silent, and 
it is uncomfortable for two people to sit together without opening 
their lips — at least I think so.” 

“ One only feels uncomfortable,” said I, “ in being silent, 
( 477 ) 


478 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


when one happens to be thinking of the individual with whom 
one is in company. To tell you the truth, I was not thinking of 
my companion, but of certain company with whom I had been 
at the public-house.” 

“ Really, young man/’ said Belle, “ you are not over compli- 
mentary ; but who may this wonderful company have been — some 
young ? ” and here Belle stopped. 

“No,” said I, “there was no young person — if person you 
were going to say. There was a big portly landlord, whom I 
dare say you have seen ; a noisy savage radical, who wanted at 
first to fasten upon me a quarrel about America, but who subse- 
quently drew in his horns ; then there was a strange fellow, a 
prowling priest, I believe, whom I have frequently heard of, who 
at first seemed disposed to side with the radical against me, and 
afterwards with me against the radical. There, you know my 
company, and what took place.” 

“ Was there no one else? ” said Belle. 

“ You are mighty curious,” said I. “ No, none else, except a 
poor, simple mechanic, and some common company, who soon 
went away.” 

Belle looked at me for a moment, and then appeared to be 
lost in thought — “ America ? ” said she, musingly — “ America ? ” 

“What of America?” said I. 

“ I have heard that it is a mighty country.” 

“ I dare say it is,” said I ; “I have heard my father say that 
the Americans are first-rate marksmen.” 

“I heard nothing about that,” said Belle; “what I heard 
was, that it is a great and goodly land, where people can walk 
about without jostling, and where the industrious can always find 
bread ; I have frequently thought of going thither.” 

“ Well,” said I, “the radical in the public-house will perhaps 
be glad of your company thither; he is as great an admirer of 
America as yourself, though I believe on different grounds.” 

“ I shall go by myself,” said Belle, “unless — unless that should 
happen which is not likely — I am not fond of radicals no more 
than I am of scoffers and mockers.” 

“ Do you mean to say that I am a scoffer and mocker? ” 

“I don’t wish to say you are,” said Belle; “but some of 
your words sound strangely like scoffing and mocking. I have 
now one thing to beg, which is, that if you have anything to say 
against America, you would speak it out boldly.” 

“What should I have to say against America? I never was 
there.” 


1825.] 


BELLE IN THE DINGLE. 


479 


“ Many people speak against America who never were there.” 

“ Many people speak in praise of America who never were 
there; but with respect to myself, I have not spoken for or 
against America.” 

“ If you liked America you would speak in its praise.” 

“By the same rule, if I disliked America I should speak 
against it.” 

“ I can’t speak with you,” said Belle ; “ but I see you dislike 
the country.” 

“ The country ! ” 

“ Well, the people — don’t you ? ” 

“ I do.” 

“ Why do you dislike them ? ” 

“ Why, I have heard my father say that the American marks- 
men, led on by a chap of the name of Washington, sent the 
English to the right-about in double-quick time.” 

“ And that is your reason for disliking the Americans?” 

“ Yes,” said I, “ that is my reason for disliking them.” 

“ Will you take another cup of tea? ” said Belle. 

I took another cup ; we were again silent. “ It is rather 
uncomfortable,” said I, at last, “for people to sit together without 
having anything to say.” 

“ Were you thinking of your company ? ” said Belle. 

“What company?” said I. 

“ The present company.” 

“ The present company ! oh, ah ! — I remember that I said one 
only feels uncomfortable in being silent with a companion, when 
one happens to be thinking of the companion. Well, I had been 
thinking of you the last two or three minutes, and had just come 
to the conclusion, that to prevent us both feeling occasionally un- 
comfortably towards each other, having nothing to say, it would 
be as well to have a standing subject, on which to employ our 
tongues. Belle, I have determined to give you lessons in 
Armenian.” 

“ What is Armenian ? ” 

“ Did you ever hear of Ararat ? ” 

“Yes, that was the place where the ark rested ; I have heard 
the chaplain in the great house talk of it ; besides, I have read of 
it in the Bible.” 

“Well, Armenian is the speech of people of that place, and I 
should like to teach it you.” 

“To prevent ” 

“Ay, ay, to prevent our occasionally feeling uncomfortable 


480 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


together. Your acquiring it besides might prove of ulterior ad- 
vantage to us both ; for example, suppose you and I were in 
promiscuous company, at Court, for example, and you had some- 
thing to communicate to me which you did not wish any one else 
to be acquainted with, how safely you might communicate it to 
me in Armenian.” 

“Would not the language of the roads do as well?” said 
Belle. 

“In some places it would,” said I, “but not at Court, owing 
to its resemblance to thieves’ slang. There is Hebrew, again, 
which I was thinking of teaching you, till the idea of being 
presented at Court made me abandon it, from the probability of 
our being understood, in the event of our speaking it, by at least 
half a dozen people in our vicinity. There is Latin, it is true, or 
Greek, which we might speak aloud at Court with perfect confi- 
dence of safety, but upon the whole I should prefer teaching you 
Armenian, not because it would be a safer language to hold com- 
munication with at Court, but because, not being very well 
grounded in it myself, I am apprehensive that its words and forms 
may escape from my recollection, unless I have sometimes 
occasion to call them forth.” 

“I am afraid we shall have to part company before I have 
learnt it,” said Belle ; “ in the meantime, if I wish to say anything 
to you in private, somebody being by, shall I speak in the 
language of the roads?” 

“If no roadster is nigh, you may,” said I, “and I will do my 
best to understand you. Belle, I will now give you a lesson in 
Armenian.” 

“ I suppose you mean no harm,” said Belle. 

“ Not in the least; I merely propose the thing to prevent our 
occasionally feeling uncomfortable together. Let us begin.” 

“Stop till I have removed the tea-things,” said Belle; and, 
getting up, she removed them to her own encampment. 

“ I am ready,” said Belle, returning, and taking her former 
seat, “ to join with you in anything which will serve to pass away 
the time agreeably, provided there is no harm in it.” 

“Belle,” said I, “ I have determined to commence the course 
of Armenian lessons by teaching you the numerals ; but, before I 
do that, it will be as well to tell you that the Armenian language is 
called Haik.” 

“I am sure that word will hang upon my memory,” said 
Belle. 

“ Why hang upon it?” 


LESSON IN ARMENIAN. 


481 


1825.] 


“ Because the old woman in the great house used to call so 
the chimney-hook, on which they hung the kettle ; in like manner, 
on the hake of my memory I will hang your hake.” 

“ Good ! ” said I, “ you will make an apt scholar ; but, mind, 
that I did not say hake, but haik ; the words are, however, very 
much alike ; and, as you observe, upon your hake you may hang 
my haik. We will now proceed to the numerals.” 

“What are numerals ? ” said Belle. 

“ Numbers. I will say the Haikan numbers up to ten. There, 
have you heard them ? ” — “ Yes.” “ Well, try and repeat them.” 

“I only remember number one,” said Belle, “and that 
because it is me." 

“ I will repeat them again,” said I, “and pay greater attention. 
Now, try again.” 

“ Me, jergo, earache ." 

“ I neither said jergo nor earache. I said yergou and yerek. 
Belle, I am afraid I shall have some difficulty with you as a 
scholar.” 

Belle made no answer. Her eyes were turned in the direction 
of the winding path, which led from the bottonv of the hollow 
where we were seated, to the plain above. “ Gorgio shunella,” 
she said, at length, in a low voice. 

“Pure Rommany,” said I ; “where?” I added in a whisper. 

“ Dovey odoi,” said Belle, nodding with her head towards the 
path. 

“ I will soon see who it is,” said I ; and starting up, I rushed 
towards the pathway, intending to lay violent hands on any one 
I might find lurking in its windings. Before, however, I had 
reached its commencement, a man, somewhat above the middle 
height, advanced from it into the dingle, in whom I recognised 
the man in black whom I had seen in the public-house. 




CHAPTER XC. 


The man in black and myself stood opposite to each other for a 
minute or two in silence ; I will not say that we confronted each 
other that time, for the man in black, after a furtive glance, did 
not look me in the face, but kept his eyes fixed, apparently on the 
leaves of a bunch of ground nuts which were growing at my feet. 
At length, looking around the dingle, he exclaimed: “ Buona Sera , 
I hope I don’t intrude 

“You have as much right here,” said I, “as I or my com- 
panion ; but you had no right to stand listening to our conversa- 
tion.” 

“ I was not listening,” said the man, “ I was hesitating whether 
to advance or retire ; and if I heard some of your conversation, 
the fault was not mine.” 

“ I do not see why you should have hesitated if your inten- 
tions were good,” said I. 

“ I think the kind of place in which I found myself might 
excuse some hesitation,” said the man in black, looking around ; 
“ moreover, from what I had seen of your demeanour at the 
public-house, I was rather apprehensive that the reception I might 
experience at your hands might be more rough than agreeable.” 

“ And what may have been your motive for coming to this 
place?” said I. 

“ Per far visita a sua signor ia, ecco il motivoP 

“ Why do you speak to me in that gibberish?” said I ; “do you 
think I understand it?” 

“ It is not Armenian,” said the man in black ; “ but it might 
serve in a place like this, for the breathing of a little secret com- 
munication, were any common roadster near at hand. It would 
not do at Court, it is true, being the language of singing women, 
and the like ; but we are not at Court — when we are, I can per- 
haps summon up a little indifferent Latin, if I have anything 
private to communicate to the learned Professor.” 

And at the conclusion of this speech the man in black lifted 
up his head, and, for some moments, looked me in the face. 

(482) 


1825.] 


THE MAN IN BLACK. 


483 


The muscles of his own seemed to be slightly convulsed, and his 
mouth opened in a singular manner. 

“ I see,” said I, “ that for some time you were standing near 
me and my companion, in the mean act of listening.” 

“ Not at all,” said the man in black ; “ I heard from the steep 
bank above that to which I have now alluded, whilst I was 
puzzling myself to find the path which leads to your retreat. I 
made, indeed, nearly the compass of the whole thicket before I 
found it.” 

“ And how did you know that I was here? ” I demanded. 

“ The landlord of the public-house, with whom I had some 
conversation concerning you, informed me that he had no doubt 
I should find you in this place, to which he gave me instructions 
not very clear. But now I am here, I crave permission to remain 
a little time, in order that I may hold some communion with you.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ since you are come, you are welcome, please 
to step this way.” 

Thereupon I conducted the man in black to the fireplace 
where Belle was standing, who had risen from her stool on my 
springing up to go in quest of the stranger. The man in black 
looked at her with evident curiosity, then making her rather a 
graceful bow, “Lovely virgin,” said he, stretching out his hand, 
“ allow me to salute your fingers”. 

“ I am not in the habit of shaking hands with strangers,” said 
Belle. 

“ I did not presume to request to shake hands with you,” said 
the man in black, “ I merely wished to be permitted to salute 
with my lips the extremity of your two forefingers.” 

“ I never permit anything of the kind,” said Belle ; “ I do not 
approve of such unmanly ways, they are only befitting those who 
lurk in corners or behind trees, listening to the conversation of 
people who would fain be private.” 

“Do you take me for a listener, then?” said the man in 
black. 

“Ay, indeed I do,” said Belle; “ the young man may receive 
your excuses, and put confidence in them if he please, but for 
my part I neither admit them, nor believe them ; ” and thereupon 
flinging her long hair back, which was hanging over her cheeks, 
she seated herself on her stool. 

“ Come, Belle,” said I, “ I have bidden the gentleman wel- 
come ; I beseech you, therefore, to make him welcome ; he is a 
stranger, where we are at home, therefore, even did we wish him 
away, we are bound to treat him kindly.” 


484 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“That’s not English doctrine,” said the man in black. 

“ I thought the English prided themselves on their hospitality,” 
said I. 

“They do so,” said the man in black; “they are proud of 
showing hospitality to people above them, that is, to those who 
do not want it, but of the hospitality which you were now de- 
scribing, and which is Arabian, they know nothing. No English- 
man will tolerate another in his house, from whom he does not 
expect advantage of some kind, and to those from whom he does, 
he can be civil enough. An Englishman thinks that, because he 
is in his own house, he has a right to be boorish and brutal to 
any one who is disagreeable to him, as all those are who are 
really in want of assistance. Should a hunted fugitive rush into 
an Englishman’s house, beseeching protection, and appealing to 
the master’s feelings of hospitality, the Englishman would knock 
him down in the passage.” 

“ You are too general,” said I, “in your strictures ; Lord -, 1 

the unpopular Tory minister, was once chased through the streets 
of London by a mob, and, being in danger of his life, took shelter 
in the shop of a Whig linen-draper, declaring his own unpopular 
name, and appealing to the linen-draper’s feelings of hospitality ; 
whereupon, the linen-draper, utterly forgetful of all party rancour, 
nobly responded to the appeal, and telling his wife to conduct 
his lordship upstairs, jumped over the counter with his ell in his 
hand, and placing himself with half a dozen of his assistants at 
the door of his boutique , manfully confronted the mob, telling 
them that he would allow himself to be torn to a thousand pieces, 
ere he would permit them to injure a hair of his lordship’s head ; 
what do you think of that?” 

“ He ! he ! he ! ” tittered the man in black. 

“ Well,” said I, “ I am afraid your own practice is not very 
different from that which you have been just now describing ; you 
sided with the radical in the public-house against me, as long as 
you thought him the most powerful, and then turned against him, 
when you saw he was cowed. What have you to say to that ? ” 

“ Oh ! when one is in Rome, I mean England, one must do 
as they do in England, I was merely conforming to the custom of 
the country, he ! he ! but I beg your pardon here, as I did in the 
public-house. I made a mistake.” 

“Well,” said I, “we will drop the matter, but pray seat 
yourself on that stone, and I will sit down on the grass near you.” 


1 MS ., “Lord A[berdeenJ”. 


i 82 5 .] 


“ WHEN IN ROME h 


485 


The man in black, after proffering two or three excuses for 
occupying what he supposed to be my seat, sat down upon the 
stone, and I squatted down gypsy fashion, just opposite to him, 
Belle sitting on her stool at a slight distance on my right. After 
a time I addressed him thus : “ Am I to reckon this a mere 
visit of ceremony ? Should it prove so, it will be, I believe, the 
first visit of the kind ever paid me.” 

“Will you' permit me to ask,” said the man in black — “the 
weather is very warm,” said he, interrupting himself, and taking 
off his hat. 

I now observed that he was partly bald, his red hair having 
died away from the fore part of his crown ; his forehead was 
high, his eyebrows scanty, his eyes grey and sly, with a downward 
tendency, his nose was slightly aquiline, his mouth rather large — 
a kind of sneering smile played continually on his lips, his 
complexion was somewhat rubicund. 

“ A bad countenance,” said Belle, in the language of the roads, 
observing that my eyes were fixed on his face. 

“ Does not my countenance please you, fair damsel ? ” said the 
man in black, resuming his hat and speaking in a peculiarly 
gentle voice. “ How,” said I, “do you understand the language 
of the roads ? ” 

“As little as I do Armenian,” said the man in black; “but 
I understand look and tone.” 

“So do I, perhaps,” retorted Belle; “and, to tell you the 
truth, I like your tone as little as your face.” 

“For shame,” said I; “have you forgot what I was saying 
just now about the duties of hospitality? You have not yet 
answered my question,” said I, addressing myself to the man, 
“with respect to your visit.” 

“ Will-you permit me to ask who you are?” 

“ Do you see the place where I live?” said I. 

“ I do,” said the man in black, looking around. 

“Do you know the name of this place?” 

“ I was told it was Mumpers’, or Gypsies’ Dingle,” said the 
man in black. 

“Good,” said I ; “ and this forge and tent, what do they look 
like?'” 

“ Like the forge and tent of a wandering Zigan ; I have seen 
the like in Italy.” 

“ Good,” said I ; they belong to me.” 

“Are you, then, a Gypsy?” said the man in black. 

“What else should 1 be?” 


486 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“But you seem to have been acquainted with various in- 
dividuals with whom I have likewise had acquaintance ; and you 
have even alluded to matters, and even words, which have passed 
between me and them.” 

“ Do you know how Gypsies live?” said I. 

“ By hammering old iron, I believe, and telling fortunes.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ there’s my forge, and yonder is some iron, 
though not old, and by your own confession I am a soothsayer.” 

“ But how did you come by your knowledge ? ” 

“ Oh,” said I, “ if you want me to reveal the secrets of my trade, 
I have, of course, nothing further to say. Go to the scarlet dyer, 
and ask him how he dyes cloth.” 

“Why scarlet?” said the man in black. “Is it because 
Gypsies blush like scarlet.” 

“ Gypsies never blush,” said I ; “ but Gypsies’ cloaks are 
scarlet.” 

“I should almost take you for a Gypsy,” said the man in 
black, “but for ” 

“For what?” said I. 

“But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general 
knowledge of languages ; as for your manners and appearance 1 
will say nothing,” said the man in black, with a titter. 

“ And why should not a Gypsy possess a knowledge of lan- 
guages?” said I. 

“ Because the Gypsy race is perfectly illiterate,” said the man 
in black ; “ they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness ; 
and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers — 
and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them ; but that 
one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Ar- 
menian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing che 
io non credo afatto .” 

“ What do you take me for ? ” said I. 

“Why,” said the man in black, “ I should consider you to be 
a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a Gypsy life ; 
but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far 
too acute for a philologist.” 

“ And why should not a philologist be able to answer ques- 
tions acutely?” said I. 

“Because the philological race is the most stupid under 
Heaven,” said the man in black ; “ they are possessed, it is true, 
of a certain faculty for picking up words, and a memory for re- 
taining them ; but that any one of the sect should be able to give 
a rational answer, to say nothing of an acute one, on any subject 


THE CLOTH PUZZLED. 


487 


1825.] 


— even though the subject were philology — is a thing of which I 
have no idea.” 

“ But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this hand- 
maid ? ” 

" I believe I did,” said the man in black. 

" And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute 
answers to the questions you asked me?” 

" I believe I did,” said the man in black.” 

" And would any one but a philologist think of giving a lesson 
in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle?” 

" I should think not,” said the man in black. 

"Well, then, don’t you see that it is possible for a philologist 
to give not only a rational, but an acute answer ? ” 

" I really don’t know,” said the man in black. 

"What’s the matter with you?” said I. 

" Merely puzzled,” said the man in black. 

" Puzzled ? ” 

"Yes.” 

" Really puzzled ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

"Remain so.” 

"Well,” said the man in black, rising, "puzzled or not, I will 
no longer tresspass upon your and this young lady’s retirement ; 0 
only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion.” 

"No apology is necessary,” said I ; "will you please to take 
anything before you go ? I think this young lady, at my request, 
would contrive to make you a cup of tea.” 

" Tea ! ” said the man in black — " he ! he ! I don’t drink 
tea ; I don’t like it — if, indeed, you had,” and here he stopped. 

"There’s nothing like gin and water, is there?” said I, "but 
I am sorry to say I have none.” 

" Gin and water,” said the man in black, " how do you know 
that I am fond of gin and water ? ” 

" Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house ? ” 

"You did,” said the man in black, "and I remember, that 
when I called for some, you repeated my words — permit me to 
ask, is gin and water an unusual drink in England ? ” 

"It is not usually drunk cold, and with a lump of sugar.” 
said I. 

"And did you know who I was by my calling for it so?” 

"Gypsies have various ways of obtaining information,” said I. 

" With all your knowledge,” said the man in black, " you do 
not appear to have known that I was coming to visit you ” 


4 88 


LA VENGRO. 


[1S25. 


“ Gypsies do not pretend to know anything which relates to 
themselves,” said I ; “but I advise you, if you ever come again, 
to come openly.” 

“ Have I your permission to come again ? ” said the man in 
black.” 

“ Come when you please ; this dingle is as free for you as me.” 

“I will visit you again,” said the man in black— “till then, 
addio.” 

“ Belle,” said I, after the man in black had departed, “ we 
did not treat that man very hospitably ; he left us without having 
eaten or drunk at our expense.” 

“You offered him some tea,” said Belle, “which, as it is 
mine, I should have grudged him, for I like him not.” 

“Our liking or disliking him had nothing to do with the 
matter, he was our visitor and ought not to have been permitted 
to depart dry ; living as we do in this desert, we ought always to 
be prepared to administer to the wants of our visitors. Belle, do 
you know where to procure any good Hollands?” 

“I think I do,” said Belle, “but ” 

“I will have no ' buts \ Belle, I expect that with as little 
delay as possible, you procure, at my expense, the best Hollands 
you can find.” 


CHAPTER XCI. 


Time passed on, and Belle and I lived in the dingle ; when I say 
lived, the reader must not imagine that we were always there. 
She went out upon her pursuits, and I went out where inclination 
led me ; but my excursions were very short ones, and hers occa- 
sionally occupied whole days and nights. If I am asked how we 
passed the time when we were together in the dingle, I would 
answer that we passed the time very tolerably, all things con- 
sidered ; we conversed together, and when tired of conversing I 
would sometimes give Belle a lesson in Armenian ; her progress 
was not particularly brilliant, but upon the whole satisfactory ; in 
about a fortnight she had hung up ioo Haikan numerals upon the 
hake of her memory. I found her conversation highly entertain- 
ing ; she had seen much of England and Wales, and had been 
acquainted with some of the most remarkable characters who 
travelled the roads at that period ; and let me be permitted to 
say that many remarkable characters have travelled the roads of 
England, of whom fame has never said a word. I loved to hear 
her anecdotes of these people ; some of whom I found had oc- 
casionally attempted to lay violent hands either upon her person 
or effects, and had invariably been humbled by her without the 
assistance of either justice or constable. I could clearly see, how- 
ever, that she was rather tired of England, and wished for a change 
of scene; she was particularly fond of talking of America, to 
which country her aspirations chiefly tended. She had heard 
much of America, which bad excited her imagination ; for at 
that time America was much talked of, on roads and in home- 
steads, at least so said Belle, who had good opportunities of 
knowing, and most people allowed that it was a good country 
for adventurous English. The people who chiefly spoke against 
it, as she informed me, were soldiers disbanded upon pensions, 
the sextons of village churches, and excisemen. Belle had a 
craving desire to visit that country, and to wander with cart and 
little animal amongst its forests; when I would occasionally 
object, that she would be exposed to danger from strange and 

(489) 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


490 


perverse customers, she said that she had not wandered the roads 
of England so long and alone, to be afraid of anything which 
might befall in America ; and that she hoped, with God’s favour, 
to be able to take her own part, and to give to perverse customers 
as good as they might bring. She had a dauntless heart that 
same Belle. Such was the staple of Belle’s conversation. As for 
mine, I would endeavour to entertain her with strange dreams of 
adventure, in which I figured in opaque forests, strangling wild 
beasts, or discovering and plundering the hordes of dragons ; and 
sometimes I would narrate to her other things far more genuine 
— how I had tamed savage mares, wrestled with Satan, and 
had dealings with ferocious publishers. Belle had a kind heart, 
and would weep at the accounts I gave her of my early wrest- 
lings with the dark monarch. She would sigh, too, as I recounted 
the many slights and degradations I had received at the hands 
of ferocious publishers ; but she had the curiosity of a woman ; 
and once, when I talked to her of the triumphs which I had 
achieved over unbroken mares, she lifted up her head and 
questioned me as to the secret of the virtue which I possessed 
over the aforesaid animals ; whereupon I sternly reprimanded, and 
forthwith commanded her to repeat the Armenian numerals ; and, 
on her demurring, I made use of words, to escape which she 
was glad to comply, saying the Armenian numerals from one to 
a hundred, which numerals, as a punishment for her curiosity, I 
made her repeat three times, loading her with the bitterest re- 
proaches whenever she committed the slightest error, either in 
accent or pronunciation, which reproaches she appeared to bear 
with the greatest patience. And now I have given a very fair 
account of the manner in which Isopel Berners and myself passed 
our time in the dingle. 


CHAPTER XCIL 


Amongst other excursions, I went several times to the public- 
house, to which I introduced the reader in a former chapter. 
I had experienced such beneficial effects from the ale I had 
drunk on that occasion, that I wished to put its virtue to a 
frequent test; nor did the ale on subsequent trials belie the 
good opinion which I had at first formed of it. After each visit 
which I made to the public-house, I found my frame stronger, 
and my mind more cheerful than they had previously been. 
The landlord appeared at all times glad to see me, and insisted 
that I should sit within the bar, where, leaving his other guests to 
be attended to by a niece of his who officiated as his house- 
keeper, he would sit beside me and talk of matters concerning 
“ the ring,” indulging himself with a cigar and a glass of sherry, 
which he told me was his favourite wine, whilst I drank my ale. 
“ I loves the conversation of all you coves of the ring,” said he 
once, “which is natural, seeing as how I have fought in a ring 
myself. Ah, there is nothing like the ring ; I wish I was not 
rather too old to |go again into it. I often think I should like to 
have another rally — one more rally, and then — but there’s a time 
for all things — youth will be served, every dog has his day, and 
mine has been a fine one — let me be content. After beating 
Tom of Hopton, there was not much more to be done in the way 
of reputation ; I have long sat in my bar the wonder and glory of 
this here neighbourhood. I’m content, as far as reputation goes ; 
I only wish money would come in a little faster ; however, the 
next main of cocks will bring me in something handsome — comes 

off next Wednesday at have ventured ten five-pound notes — 

shouldn’t say ventured either — run no risk at all, because why ? I 
know my birds.” About ten days after this harangue, I called 
again at about three o’clock one afternoon. The landlord was 
seated on a bench by a table in the common room, which was 
entirely empty ; he was neither smoking nor drinking, but sat with 
his arms folded, and his head hanging down over his breast. At 
the sound of my step he looked up ; “ Ah,” said he, “I am glad 

(49 0 


49 * 


LA VLNGkO. 


[1825. 


you are come, I was just thinking about you”. “Thank you,” 
said I ; “it was very kind of you, especially at a time like this, 
when your mind must be full of your good fortune. Allow me to 
congratulate you on the sums of money you won by the main of 

cocks at I hope you brought it all safe home.” “Safe 

home,” said the landlord ; “I brought myself safe home, and 
that was all; came home without a shilling, regularly done, 
cleaned out.” “ I am sorry for that,” said I ; “ but after you 
had won the money, you ought to have been satisfied, and not 
risked it again — how did you lose it? I hope not by the pea 
and thimble.” “ Pea and thimble,” said the landlord, “ not 
I ; those confounded cocks left me nothing to lose by the pea 
and thimble.” “ Dear me,” said I ; “I thought that you knew 
your birds.” “ Well, so I did,” said the landlord ; “ I knew the 
birds to be good birds, and so they proved, and would have won 
if better birds had not been brought against them, of which I 
knew nothing, and so do you see I am done, regularly done.” 
“ Well,” said I, “ don’t be cast down ; there is one thing of which 
the cocks by their misfortune cannot deprive you — your reputa- 
tion ; make the most of that, give up cock-fighting, and be 
content with the custom of your house, of which you will always 
have plenty, as long as you are the wonder and glory of the 
neighbourhood.” 

The landlord struck the table before him violently with his 
fist, “Confound my reputation!” said he. “No reputation 
that I have will be satisfaction to my brewer for the seventy 
pounds I owe him. Reputation won’t pass for the current coin 
of this here realm ; and let me tell you, that if it a’n’t backed by 
some of it, it a’n’t a bit better than rotten cabbage, as I have 
found. Only three weeks since I was, as I told you, the wonder 
and glory of the neighbourhood ; and people used to come and 
look at me, and worship me, but as soon as it began to be 
whispered about that I owed money to the brewer, they presently 
left off all that kind of thing ; and now, during the last three days, 
since the tale of my misfortune with the cocks has got wind, 
almost everbody has left off coming to the house, and the few 
who does, merely comes to insult and flout me. It was only 
last night that fellow. Hunter, called me an old fool in my own 
kitchen here. He wouldn’t have called me a fool a fortnight 
ago; ’twas I called him fool then, and last night he called me 
old fool ; what do you think of that ? the man that beat Tom of 
Hopton, to be called, not only a fool, but an old fool ; and I hadn’t 
heart, with one blow of this here fist into his face, to send his 


1825.] 


PUBLICAN'S PROPOSITION. 


493 


head ringing against the wall ; for when a man’s pocket is low, do 
you see, his heart a’n’t much higher ; but* it is of no use talking, 
something must be done. I was thinking of you just as you 
came in, for you are just the person that can help me.” 

“If you mean,” said I, “to ask me to lend you the money 
which you want, it will be to no purpose, as I have very little of 
my own, just enough for my own occasions ; it is true, if you 
desired it, I would be your intercessor with the person to whom 
you owe the money, though I should hardly imagine that any- 
thing I could say ” “ You are right there,” said the landlord ; 

“ much the brewer would care for anything you could say on my 
behalf — your going would be the very way to do me up entirely. 
A pretty opinion he would have of the state of my affairs if I were 
to send him such a ’cessor as you, and as for your lending me 
money, don’t think I was ever fool enough to suppose either that 
you had any, or if you had that you would be fool enough to lend 
me any. No, no, the coves of the ring knows better ; I have been 
in the ring myself, and knows what fighting a cove is, and though 
I was fool enough to back those birds, I was never quite fool 
enough to lend anybody money. What I am about to propose is 
something very different from going to my landlord, or lending 
any capital ; something which, though it will put money into my 
pocket, will likewise put something handsome into your own. 
I want to get up a fight in this here neighbourhood, which would 
be sure to bring plenty of people to my house, for a week before 
and after it takes place, and as people can’t come without drink- 
ing, I think I could, during one fortnight, get off for the brewer 
all the sour and unsaleable liquids he now has, which people 
wouldn’t drink at any other time, and by that means, do you see, 
liquidate my debt; then, by means of betting, making first all 
right, do you see, I have no doubt that I could put something 
handsome into my pocket and yours, for I should wish you to be 
the fighting man, as I think I can depend upon you.” “ You 
really must excuse me,” said I, “ I have no wish to figure as a 
pugilist, besides there is such a difference in our ages ; you may 
be the stronger man of the two, and perhaps the hardest hitter, 
but I am in much better condition, am more active on my legs, 
so that I am almost sure I should have the advantage, for, as you 
very properly observed, ‘Youth will be served’.” “Oh, I didn’t 
mean to fight,” said the landlord ; “ I think I could beat you if I 
were to train a little ; but in the fight I propose I looks more to 
the main chance than anything else. I question whether half so 
many people could be brought together if you were to fight with 


494 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


me as the person I have in view, or whether there would be half 
such opportunities forgetting, for I am a man, do you see, the 
person I wants you to fight with is not a man, but the young 
woman you keeps company with.” 

“ The young woman I keep company with,” said I ; “ pray 
what do you mean?” 

“ We will go into the bar, and have something,” said the land- 
lord, getting up. “ My niece is out, and there is no one in the 
house, so we can talk the matter over quietly.” Thereupon I 
followed him into the bar, where, having drawn me a jug of ale, 
helped himself as usual to a glass of sherry, and lighted a cigar, 
he proceeded to explain himself farther. “ What I wants is to 
get up a fight between a man and a woman ; there never has yet 
been such a thing in the ring, and the mere noise of the matter 
would bring thousands of people together, quite enough to drink 
out — for the thing should be close to my house — all the brewer’s 
stock of liquids, both good and bad.” “ But,” said I, “ you were 
the other day boasting of the respectability of your house ; do you 
think that a fight between a man and a woman close to your 
establishment would add to its respectability ? ” “ Confound the 

respectability of my house,” said the landlord, “ will the respect- 
ability of my house pay the brewer, or keep the roof over my 
head? No, no! when respectability won’t keep a man, do you 
see, the best thing is to let it go and wander. Only let me have 
my own way, and both the brewer, myself, and every one of us, 
will be satisfied. And then the betting — what a deal we may 
make by the betting — and that we shall have all to ourselves, 
you, I, and the young woman ; the brewer will have no hand in 
that. I can manage to raise ten pounds, and if by flashing that 
about, I don’t manage to make a hundred, call me horse.” “But, 
suppose,” said I, “ the party should lose, on whom you sport your 
money, even as the birds did ? ” “ We must first make all right,” 

said the landlord, “ as I told you before ; the birds were irrational 
beings, and therefore couldn’t come to an understanding with the 
others, as you and the young woman can. The birds fought fair ; 
but I intend you and the young woman should fight cross.” 
“What do you mean by cross?” said I. “Come, come,” said 
the landlord, “don’t attempt to gammon me; you in the ring, 
and pretend not to know what fighting cross is. That won’t do, 
my fine fellow ; but as no one is near us, I will speak out. I 
intend that you and the young woman should understand one 
another and agree beforehand which should be beat ; and if you 
take my adyice you will determine between you that the young 


1825.] 


495 


“ I’LL CHANGE MY RELIGION !” 


woman shall be beat, as I am sure that the odds will run high 
upon her, her character as a fist woman being spread far and wide, 
so that all the flats who think it will be all right, will back her, 
as I myself would, if I thought it would be a fair thing.” “ Then,” 
said I, “you would not have us fight fair.” “ By no means,” 
said the landlord, “ because why ? I conceives that a cross is a 
certainty to those who are in it, whereas by the fair thing one may 
lose all he has.” “But,” said I, “you said the other day, that 
you liked the fair thing.” “ That was by way of gammon,” said 
the landlord ; “ just, do you see, as a Parliament cove might say 
speechifying from a barrel to a set of flats, whom he means to sell. 
Come, what do you think of the plan ? ” 

“ It is a very ingenious one,” said I. 

“A’n’t it,” said the landlord. “The folks in this neighbour- 
hood are beginning to call me old fool, but if they don’t call me 
something else, when they sees me friends with the brewer, and 
money in my pocket, my name is not Catchpole. Come, drink 
your ale, and go home to the young gentlewoman.” 

“ I am going,” said I, rising from my seat, after finishing the 
remainder of the ale. 

“ Do you think she’ll have any objection ? ” said the landlord. 

“ To do what? ” said I. 

“ Why, to fight cross.” 

“ Yes, I do,” said I. 

“ But you will do your best to persuade her ? ” 

“ No, I will not,” said I. 

“ Are you fool enough to wish to fight fair ? ” 

“ No,” said I, “ I am wise enough to wish not to fight at all.” 

“ And how’s my brewer to be paid? ” said the landlord. 

“ I really don’t know,” said I. 

“ I’ll change my religion,” said the landlord. 


CHAPTER XCITI. 


One evening Belle and myself received another visit from the 
man in black. After a little conversation of not much importance, 
I asked him whether he would not take some refreshment, as- 
suring him that I was now in possession of some very excellent 
Hollands which, with a glass, a jug of water, and a lump of sugar, 
were heartily at his service ; he accepted my offer, and Belle going 
with a jug to the spring, from which she was in the habit of 
procuring water for tea, speedily returned with it full of the clear, 
delicious water of which I have already spoken. Having placed 
the jug by the side of the man in black, she brought him a glass 
and spoon, and a tea cup, the latter containing various lumps of 
snowy-white sugar : in the meantime I had produced a bottle of 
the stronger liquid. The man in black helped himself to some 
water, and likewise to some Hollands, the proportion of water 
being about two-thirds ; then adding a lump of sugar, he stirred 
the whole up, tasted it, and said that it was good. 

“ This is one of the good things of life,” he added, after a 
short pause. 

“What are the others?” I demanded. 

“ There is Malvoisia sack,” said the man in black, “ and 
partridge, and beccafico.” 

“ And what do you say to high mass ? ” said I. 

“ High mass! ” said the man in black; “however,” he con- 
tinued, after a pause, “ I will be frank with you ; I came to be 
so ; I may have heard high mass on a time, and said it too, but 
as for any predilection for it, I assure you I have no more than 
for a long High Church sermon.” 

“ You speak a la Margutte? ” said I. 

“ Margutte ! ” said the man in black, musingly, “ Margutte ? ” 

“You have read Pulci, I suppose ? ” said I. 

“ Yes, yes,” said the man in black, laughing ; “ I remember.” 

“ He might be rendered into English,” said I, “ something 
in this style: — 

(496) 


1825.] 


TINKER QUOTES PULCI. 


497 


“To which Margutte answered with a sneer, 

I like the blue no better than the black, 

My faith consists alone in savoury cheer, 

In roasted capons, and in potent sack ; 

But above all, in famous gin and clear, 

Which often lays the Briton on his back, 

With lump of sugar, and with lympth from well, 

I drink it, and defy the fiends of hell.” 

“ He ! he ! he ! ” said the man in black ; “ that is more than 
Mezzofante could have done for a stanza of Byron;” 

A clever man,” said I. 

“ Who ? ” said the man in black. 

“ Mezzofante di Bologna.” 

“ He ! he ! he ! ” said the man in black ; “ now I know that 
you are not a Gypsy, at least a soothsayer ; no soothsayer would 
have said that ” 

“Why,” said I, “does he not understand five-and-twenty 
tongues ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the man in black ; “ and five-and-twenty added 
to them ; but — he ! he ! he ! it was principally from him who is 
certainly the greatest of philologists that I formed my opinion of 
the sect.” 

“You ought to speak of him with more respect,” said I ; “ I 
have heard say that he has done good service to your see.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the man in black ; “ he has done good service 
to our see, that is, in his way ; when the neophytes of the propa- 
ganda are to be examined in the several tongues in which they 
are destined to preach, he is appointed to question them, the 
questions being first written down for him, or else, he ! he ! he ! 
Of course you know Napoleon’s estimate of Mezzofante ; he sent 
for the linguist from motives of curiosity, and after some discourse 
with him, told him that he might depart ; then turning to some 
of his generals, he observed : * Nous avons eu ici un exemple qu'un 
homme pent avoir beaucoup de paroles avec bien peu cl 'esprit \ ” 

“You are ungrateful to him,” said I ; “well, perhaps, when 
he is dead and gone you will do him justice.” 

“ True,” said the man in black ; “ when he is dead and gone 
we intend to erect him a statue of wood, on the left-hand side of 
the door of the Vatican library.” 

“ Of wood?” said I. 

“ He was the son of a carpenter, you know,” said the man in 
black ; “the figure will be of wood, for no other reason, I assure 
you ; he ! he ! ” 

“ You should place another statue on the right.” 

32 


498 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“Perhaps we shall,” said the man in black; “but we know 
of no one amongst the philologists of Italy, nor, indeed, of the 
other countries, inhabited by the faithful, worthy to sit parallel 
in effigy with our illustrissimo ; when, indeed, we have conquered 
these regions of the perfidious by bringing the inhabitants thereof 
to the true faith, I have no doubt that we shall be able to select 
one worthy to bear him company, one whose statue shall be 
placed on the right hand of the library, in testimony of our joy 
at his conversion ; for, as you know, ‘ There is more joy,’ etc.” 

“ Wood ?” said I. 

“ I hope not,” said the man in black ; “'no, if I be consulted 
as to the material for the statue, I should strongly recommend 
bronze.” 

And when the man in black had said this, he emptied his 
second tumbler of its contents, and prepared himself another. 


CHAPTER XCIV. 


“ So you hope to bring these regions again beneath the bannei 
of the Roman See? ” said I, after the man in black had prepared 
the beverage, and tasted it. 

“ Hope,” said the man in black ; “ how can we fail ? Is not 
the Church of these regions going to lose its prerogative ?” 

“ Its prerogative ? ” 

“ Yes ; those who should be the guardians of the religion of 
England are about to grant Papists emancipation and to remove 
the disabilities from Dissenters, which will allow the Holy Father 
to play his own game in England.” 

On my inquiring how the Holy Father intended to play his 
game, the man in black gave me to understand that he intended 
for the present to cover the land with temples, in which the religion 
of Protestants would be continually scoffed at and reviled. 

On my observing that such behaviour would savour strongly 
of ingratitude, the man in black gave me to understand that if I 
entertained the idea that the See of Rome was ever influenced 
in its actions by any feeling of gratitude I was much mistaken, 
assuring me that if the See of Rome in any encounter should 
chance to be disarmed and its adversary, from a feeling of mag- 
nanimity, should restore the sword which had been knocked out 
of its hand, the See of Rome always endeavoured on the first 
opportunity to plunge the said sword into its adversary’s bosom, — 
conduct which the man in black seemed to think was very wise, 
and which he assured me had already enabled it to get rid of a 
great many troublesome adversaries, and would, he had no doubt, 
enable it to get rid of a great many more. 

On my attempting to argue against the propriety of such 
behaviour, the man in black cut the matter short, by saying, that 
if one party was a fool he saw no reason why the other should 
imitate it in its folly. 

After musing a little while I told him that emancipation had 
not yet passed through the legislature, and that perhaps it never 
would, reminding him that there was often many a slip between 
the cup and the lip ; to which observation the man in black 
agreed, assuring me, however, that there was no doubt that 

( 499 ) 


5oo 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825- 


emancipation would be carried, inasmuch as there was a very loud 
cry at present in the land ; a cry of “ tolerance,” which had almost 
frightened the Government out of its wits ; who, to get rid of the 
cry, was going to grant all that was asked in the way of toleration, 
instead of telling the people to “ Hold their nonsense,” and 
cutting them down, provided they continued bawling longer. 

I questioned the man in black with respect to the origin of 
this cry ; but he said to trace it to its origin would require a 
long history ; that, at any rate, such a cry was in existence, the 
chief raisers of it being certain of the nobility, called Whigs, who 
hoped by means of it to get into power, and to turn out certain 
>ancient adversaries of theirs called Tories, who were for letting 
things remain in statu quo ; that these Whigs were backed by a 
party amongst the people called Radicals, a specimen of whom 
I had seen in the public-house ; a set of fellows who were always 
in the habit of bawling against those in place ; “ and so,” he 
added, “ by means of these parties, and the hubbub which the 
papists and other smaller sects are making, a general emanci- 
pation will be carried, and the Church of England humbled, 
which is the principal thing which the See of Rome cares for.” 

On my telling the man in black that I believed that even 
among the high dignitaries of the English Church there were 
many who wished to grant perfect freedom to religions of all 
descriptions, he said : “ He was aware that such was the fact, 
and that such a wish was anything but wise, inasmuch as if they 
had any regard for the religion they professed, they ought to 
stand by it through thick and thin, proclaiming it to be the only 
true one, and denouncing all others, in an alliterative style, as 
dangerous and damnable ; whereas by their present conduct, 
they were bringing their religion into contempt with the people at 
large, who would never continue long attached to a church, the 
ministers of which did not stand up for it, and likewise cause 
their own brethren, who had a clearer notion of things, to be 
ashamed of belonging to it. I speak advisedly,” said he, in con- 
tinuation, “ there is one Platitude.” 

“ And I hope there is only one,” said I ; “ you surely would 
not adduce the likes and dislikes of that poor silly fellow as the 
criterions of the opinions of any party ? ” 

“ You know him?” said the man in black ; “ nay, I heard you 
mention him in the public-house ; the fellow is not very wise, I 
admit, but he has sense enough to know that unless a church 
can make people hold their tongues when it thinks fit, it is 
scarcely deserving the name of a church ; no, I think that the 


1825.] 


MR. PLATITUDE. 


501 


fellow is not such a very bad stick, and that upon the whole he 
is, or rather was, an advantageous specimen of the High Church 
English clergy, who, for the most part, so far from troubling their 
heads about persecuting people, only think of securing their tithes, 
eating their heavy dinners, puffing out their cheeks with im- 
portance on country justice benches, and occasionally exhibiting 
their conceited wives, hoyden daughters, and gawky sons at 
country balls, whereas Platitude ” 

“ Stop,” said I ; “ you said in the public-house that the 
Church of England was a persecuting church, and here in the 
dingle you have confessed that one section of it is willing to grant 
perfect freedom to the exercise of all religions, and the other 
only thinks of leading an easy life.” 

“ Saying a thing in the public-house is a widely different thing 
from saying it in the dingle,” said the man in black ; “ had the 
Church of England been a persecuting church, it would not 
stand in the position in which it stands at present ; it might, with 
its opportunities, have spread itself over the greater part of the 
world. I was about to observe, that instead of practising the 
indolent habits of his High Church brethren, Platitude would 
be working for his money, preaching the proper use of fire and 
faggot, or rather of the halter and the whipping-post, encouraging 
mobs to attack the houses of Dissenters, employing spies to collect 
the scandal of neighbourhoods, in order that he might use it for 
sacerdotal purposes, and, in fact, endeavouring to turn an English 
parish into something like a Jesuit benefice in the south of France.” 

“ He tried that game,” said I, “ and the parish said, ‘ Pooh, 
pooh,’ and, for the most part, went over to the Dissenters.” 

“ Very true,” said the man in black, taking a sip at his glass, 
“ but why were the Dissenters allowed to preach ? why were they 
not beaten on the lips till they spat out blood, with a dislodged 
tooth or two ? Why, but because the authority of the Church of 
England has, by its own fault, become so circumscribed that Mr. 
Platitude was not able to send a host of beadles and sbirri to their 
chapel to bring them to reason, on which account Mr. Platitude 
is very properly ashamed of his church, and is .thinking of uniting 
himself with one which possesses more vigour and authority.” 

“ It may have vigour and authority,” said I, “in foreign 
lands, but in these kingdoms the day for practising its atrocities 
is gone by. It is at present almost below contempt, and is obliged 
to sue for grace in formcL pauperis .” 

“ Very true,” said the man in black, “ but let it once obtain 
emancipation, and it will cast its slough, put on its fine clothes, 


502 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


and make converts by thousands. ‘ What a fine church,’ they’ll 
say ; ‘ with what authority it speaks — no doubts, no hesitation, 
no sticking at trifles.’ What a contrast to the sleepy English 
Church ! they’ll go over to it by millions, till it preponderates 
here over every other, when it will of course be voted the domi- 
nant one ; and then — and then ” and here the man in black 

drank a considerable quantity of gin and water. 

“ What then ? ” said I. 

“ What then ? ” said the man in black, “ why, she will be true 
to herself. Let Dissenters, whether they be Church of England, 
-as perhaps they may still call themselves, Methodist or Presby- 
terian, presume to grumble, and there shall be bruising of lips in 
pulpits, tying up to whipping-posts, cutting off ears and noses — 
he ! he ! the farce of King Log has been acted long enough ; the 
time for Queen Stork’s tragedy is drawing nigh ; ” and the man 
in black sipped his gin and water in a very exulting manner. 

“ And this is the church which, according to your assertion 
in the public-house, never persecutes ? ” 

“ I have already given you an answer,” said the man in black, 
“ with respect to the matter of the public-house ; it is one of the 
happy privileges of those who belong to my church to deny in 
the public-house what they admit in the dingle ; we have high 
warranty for such double speaking. Did not the foundation 
stone of our church, Saint Peter, deny in the public-house what 
he had previously professed in the valley ? ” 

“And do you think,” said I, “that the people of England, 
who have shown aversion to anything in the shape of intolerance, 
will permit such barbarities as you have described ? ” 

“ Let them become Papists,” said the man in black ; “ only 
let the majority become Papists, and you will see.” 

“ They will never become so,” said I ; “the good sense of the 
people of England will never permit them to commit such an 
absurdity.” ^ 

“ The good sense of the people of England ? ” said the man in 
black, filling himself another glass. 

“Yes,” said I; “the good sense of not only the upper, but 
the middle and lower classes.” 

“And of what description of people are the upper class?” 
said the man in black, putting a lump of sugar into his gin and water. 

“Very fine people,” said I, “monstrously fine people; so, at 
least, they are generally believed to be.” 

“ He ! he ! ” said the man in black ; “ only those think them 
so who don’t know them. The male part of the upper class are 


MACSYCOPHANT. 


503 


1825.] 


in youth a set of heartless profligates ; in old age, a parcel of poor, 
shaking, nervous paillards. The female part, worthy to be the 
sisters and wives of such wretches, unmarried, full of cold vice, 
kept under by vanity and ambition, but which, after marriage, 
they seek not to restrain ; in old age, abandoned to vapours and 
horrors, do you think that such beings will afford any obstacle to 
the progress of the church in these regions, as soon as her move- 
ments are unfettered ? ” 

“ I cannot give an opinion ; I know nothing of them, except 
from a distance. But what think you of the middle classes ? ” 

“Their chief characteristic,” said the man in black, “is a rage 
for grandeur and gentility ; and that same rage makes us quite 
sure of them in the long run. Everything that’s lofty meets their 
unqualified approbation ; whilst everything humble, or, as they 
call it, ‘ low,’ is scouted by them. They begin to have a vague 
idea that the religion which they have hitherto professed is low ; 
at any rate that it is not the religion of the mighty ones of the 
earth, of the great kings and emperors whose shoes they have a 
vast inclination to kiss, nor was used by the grand personages of 
whom they have read in their novels and romances, their Ivanhoes, 
their Marmions, and their Ladies of the Lake.” 

“ Do you think that the writings of Scott have had any influ- 
ence in modifying their religious opinions ? ” 

“ Most certainly I do,” said the man in black. “ The writings 
of that man have made them greater fools than they were before. 
All their conversation now is about gallant knights, princesses and 
cavaliers, with which his pages are stuffed — all of whom were 
Papists, or very High Church, which is nearly the same thing ; and 
they are beginning to think that the religion of such nice sweet- 
scented gentry must be something very superfine. Why, I know 
at Birmingham the daughter of an ironmonger, who screeches to 
the piano the Lady of the Lake’s hymn to the Virgin Mary, 
always weeps when Mary Queen of Scots is mentioned, and fasts 
on the anniversary of the death of that very wise martyr, Charles 
the First. Why, I would engage to convert such an idiot to 
popery in a week, were it worth my trouble. O Cavaliere 
Gualtiero , avete fatto molto in favore della Santa Sede ! ” 

“If he has,” said I, “he has done it unwittingly; I never 
heard before that he was a favourer of the popish delusion.” 

“ Only in theory,” said the man in black. “Trust any of the 
clan MacSycophant for interfering openly and boldly in favour of 
any cause on which the sun does not shine benignantly. Popery 
is at present, as you say, suing for grace in these regions in forma 


504 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


pauperis ; but let royalty once take it up, let old gouty George 
once patronise it, and I would consent to drink puddle-water, if 
the very next time the canny Scot was admitted to the royal 
symposium he did not say: ‘By my faith, yere Majesty, I have 
always thought, at the bottom of my heart, that popery, as ill- 
scrapit tongues ca’ it, was a very grand religion ; I shall be proud 
to follow your Majesty’s example in adopting it 

“ I doubt not,” said I, “ that both gouty George and his 
devoted servant will be mouldering in their tombs long before 
royalty in England thinks about adopting popery.” 

“We can wait,” said the man in black; “ in these days of rampant 
gentility, there will be no want of kings nor of Scots about them.” 

“ But not Walters,” said I. 

“Our work has been already tolerably well done by one,” 
said the man in black ; “ but if we wanted literature we should 
never lack in these regions hosts of literary men of some kind or 
other to eulogise us, provided our religion were in the fashion, 
and our popish nobles chose, and they always do our bidding, to 
admit the canaille to their tables, their kitchen tables. As for 
literature in general,” said he, “ the Santa Sede is not particularly 
partial to it, it may be employed both ways. In Italy, in particu- 
lar, it has discovered that literary men are not always disposed to 
be lick-spittles.” 

“ For example, Dante,” said I. 

“Yes,” said the man in black. “A dangerous personage; 
that poem of his cuts both ways; and then there was Pulci, that 
Morgante of his cuts both ways, or rather one way, and that sheer 
against us ; and then there was Aretino, who dealt so hard with 
the poveri frati ; all writers, at least Italian ones, are not lick- 
spittles. And then in Spain, ’tis true, Lope de Vega and Calderon 
were most inordinate lick-spittles ; the Principe Const ante of the 
last is a curiosity in its way ; and then the Mary Stuart of Lope ; 
I think I shall recommend the perusal of that work to the 
Birmingham ironmonger’s daughter ; she has been lately thinking 
of adding ‘ a slight knowledge of the magneeficent language of the 
Peninsula ’ to the rest of her accomplishments, he ! he ! he ! but 
then there was Cervantes, starving, but straight ; he deals us some 
hard knocks in that second part of his Quixote ; then there was 
some of the writers of the picaresque novels. No ; all literary 
men are not lick-spittles, whether in Italy or Spain, or, indeed, 
upon the Continent ; it is only in England that all ” 

“Come,” said I, “ mind what you are about to say of English 
literary men.” 


I825-J 


TENDENCIES AT WORK. 


505 


“Why should I mind?” said the man in black, “there are 
no literary men here. I have heard of literary men living in 
garrets, but not in dingles, whatever philologists may do ; I may, 
therefore, speak out freely. It is only in England that literary 
men are invariably lick-spittles ; on which account, perhaps, they 
are so despised, even by those who benefit by their dirty services. 
Look at your fashionable novel writers, he ! he ! and above all at 
your newspaper editors, ho ! ho ! ” 

“ You will, of course, except the editors of the from your 

censure of the last class?” said I. 

“Them ! ” said the man in black ; “ why, they might serve as 
models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it. See how 
they bepraise their patrons, the grand Whig nobility, who hope, 
by raising the cry of liberalism, and by putting themselves at the 
head of the populace, to come into power shortly. I don’t wish 
to be hard, at present, upon those Whigs,” he continued, “for 
they are playing our game ; but a time will come when, not want- 
ing them, we will kick them to a considerable distance : and then, 
when toleration is no longer the cry, and the Whigs are no longer 

backed by the populace, see whether the editors of the will 

stand by them ; they will prove themselves as expert lick-spittles 
of despotism as of liberalism. Don’t think they will always 
bespatter the Tories and Austria.” 

“ Well,” said I, “I am sorry to find that you entertain so low 
an opinion of the spirit of English literary men ; we will now 
return, if you please, to the subject of the middle classes ; I think 
your strictures upon them in general are rather too sweeping — they 
are not altogether the foolish people which you have described. 
Look, for example, at that very powerful and numerous body the 
Dissenters, the descendants of those sturdy Patriots who hurled 
Charles the Simple from his throne.” 

“ There are some sturdy fellows amongst them, I do not deny,” 
said the man in black, “especially amongst the preachers, clever 
withal — two or three of that class nearly drove Mr. Platitude mad, 
as perhaps you are aware, but they are not very numerous ; and 
the old sturdy sort of preachers are fast dropping off, and, as we 
observe with pleasure, are generally succeeded by frothy coxcombs, 
whom it would not be very difficult to gain over. But what we 
most rely upon as an instrument to bring the Dissenters over to 
us is the mania for gentility, which amongst them has of late be- 
come as great, and more ridiculous, than amongst the middle classes 
belonging to the Church of England. All the plain and simple 
fashions of their forefathers they are either about to abandon, or 


5°6 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


have already done so. Look at the most part of their chapels, no 
longer modest brick edifices, situated in quiet and retired streets, 
but lunatic-looking erections, in what the simpletons call the 
modern Gothic taste, of Portland stone, with a cross upon the top, 
and the site generally the most conspicuous that can be found ; 
and look at the manner in which they educate their children, I 
mean those that are wealthy. They do not even wish them to be 
Dissenters, ' the sweet dears shall enjoy the advantages of good 
society, of which their parents were debarred ’. So the girls are 
sent to tip-top boarding-schools, where amongst other trash they 
read Rokeby , and are taught to sing snatches from that high-flying 
ditty the ‘ Cavalier ’ 

‘ Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown, 

With the barons of England, who fight for the crown ? ’ 

he ! he ! their own names. Whilst the lads are sent to those 
hot-beds of pride and folly — colleges, whence they return with 
a greater contempt for everything ‘ low/ and especially for their 
own pedigree, than they went with. I tell you, friend, the 
children of Dissenters, if not their parents, are going over to the 
church, as you call it, and the church is going over to Rome.” 

“ I do not see the justice of that latter assertion at all/’ said 
I ; “ some of the Dissenters’ children may be coming over to the 
Church of England, and yet the Church of England be very far 
from going over to Rome.” 

“In the high road for it, I assure you,” said the man in 
black, “ part of it is going to abandon, the rest to lose, their pre- 
rogative, and when a church no longer retains its prerogative, it 
speedily loses its own respect, and that of others.” 

“Well,” said I, “if the higher classes have all the vices and 
follies which you represent, on which point I can say nothing, as 
I have never mixed with them ; and even supposing the middle 
classes are the foolish beings you would fain make them, and 
which I do not believe them as a body to be, you would still find 
some resistance amongst the lower classes ; I have a considerable 
respect for their good sense and independence of character, but 
pray let me hear your opinion of them.” 

“ As for the lower classes,” said the man in black, “ I believe 
them to be the most brutal wretches in the world, the most addicted 
to foul feeding, foul language, and foul vices of every kind ; wretches 
who have neither love for country, religion, nor anything save their 
own vile selves. You surely do not think that they would oppose a 
change of religion ? why, there is not one of them byt would hurrah for 


1825.] 


PRIESTLEY. 


507 


the Pope, or Mahomet, for the sake of a hearty gorge and a drunken 
bout, like those which they are treated with at election contests.” 

“ Has your church any followers amongst them ?” said I. 

“ Wherever there happens to be a Romish family of consider- 
able possessions,* said the man in black, “ our church is sure to 
have followers of the lower class, who have come over in the hope 
of getting something in the shape of dole or donation. As, how- 
ever, the Romish is not yet the dominant religion, and the clergy 
of the English establishment have some patronage to bestow, the 
churches are not quite deserted by the lower classes; yet were 
the Romish to become the established religion, they would, to a 
certainty, all go over to it ; you can scarcely imagine what a 
self-interested set they are — for example, the landlord of that 
public-house in which I first met you, having lost a sum of money 
upon a cock-fight, and his affairs in consequence being in a bad 
condition, is on the eve of coming over to us, in the hope that 
two old Popish females of property, whom I confess, will advance 
a sum of money to set him up again in the world.” 

“ And what could have put such an idea into the poor fellow’s 
head?” said I. 

“ Oh ! he and I have had some conversation upon the state of 
his affairs,” said the man in black ; “ I think he might make a rather 
useful convert in these parts, provided things take a certain turn, 
as they doubtless will. It is no bad thing to have a fighting fellow, 
who keeps a public-house, belonging to one’s religion. He has 
been occasionally employed as a bully at elections by the Tory 
party, and he may serve us in the same capacity. The fellow 
comes of a good stock ; I heard him say that his father headed 
the High Church mob, who sacked and burnt Priestley’s house at 
Birmingham towards the end of the last century.” 

“A disgraceful affair,” said I. 

“What do you mean by a disgraceful affair?” said the man in 
black. “ I assure you that nothing has occurred for the last fifty 
years which has given the High Church party so much credit in the 
eyes of Rome as that ; we did not imagine that the fellows had so 
much energy. Had they followed up that affair by twenty others 
of a similar kind, they would by this time have had everything in 
their own power; but they did not, and, as a necessary conse- 
quence, they are reduced to almost nothing.” 

“ I suppose,” said I, “ that your church would have acted very 
differently in its place.” 

“ It has always done so,” said the man in black, coolly sipping. 
“ Our church has always armed the brute population against the 
genius and intellect of a country, provided that same intellect and 


5°8 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825- 


genius were not willing to become its instruments and eulogists ; 
and provided we once obtain a firm hold here again, we would 
not fail to do so. We would occasionally stuff" the beastly rabble 
with horseflesh and bitter ale, and then halloo them on against all 
those who were obnoxious to us.” 

“ Horseflesh and bitter ale ! ” I replied. 

“Yes,” said the man in black; “horseflesh and bitter ale, the 
favourite delicacies of their Saxon ancestors, who were always 
ready to do our bidding after a liberal allowance of such cheer. 
There is a tradition in our church, that before the Northumbrian 
rabble, at the instigation of Austin, attacked and massacred the 
presbyterian monks of Bangor, they had been allowed a good 
gorge of horseflesh and bitter ale. He ! he ! he ! ” continued 
the man in black, “ what a fine spectacle to see such a mob, 
headed by a fellow like our friend, the landlord, sack the house 
of another Priestley ! ” 

“ Then you don’t deny that we have had a Priestley,” said I, 
“and admit the possibility of our having another? You were 
lately observing that all English literary men were sycophants ? ” 

“ Lick-spittles,” said the man in black ; “ yes, I admit that you 
have had a Priestley, but he was a Dissenter of the old sort ; you 
have had him, and perhaps may have another.” 

“ Perhaps we may,” said I. “ But with respect to the lower 
classes, have you mixed much with them ? ” 

“I have mixed with all classes,” said the man in black, 
“and with the lower not less than the upper and middle, they 
are much as I have described them ; and of the three, the lower 
are the worst. I never knew one of them that possessed the 

slightest principle, no, not It is true, there was one fellow 

whom I once met, who , but it is a long story, and the affair 

happened abroad.” 

“ I ought to know something of the English people,” he 
continued, after a moment’s pause ; “ I have been many years 
amongst them labouring in the cause of the church.” 

“Your see must have had great confidence in your powers, 
when it selected you to labour for it in these parts ? ” said I. 

“ They chose me,” said the man in black, “ principally 
because being of British extraction and education, I could speak 
the English language and bear a glass of something strong. It 
is the opinion of my see, that it would hardly do to send a 
missionary into a country like this who is not well versed in 
English ; a country where they think, so far from understanding 
any language besides his own, scarcely one individual in ten 
speaks his own intelligibly ; or an ascetic person, where as they say, 


1825.] 


“ GO TO ROME FOR MONEY ! 


509 


high and low, male and female, are, at some period of their lives, 
fond of a renovating glass, as it is styled, in other words, of tippling.” 

“ Your see appears to entertain a very strange opinion of the 
English,” said I. 

“ Not altogether an unjust one,” said the man in black, lifting 
the glass to his mouth. 

“ Well,” said I, “ it is certainly very kind on its part to wish to 
bring back such a set of beings beneath its wing.” 

“ Why, as to the kindness of my see,” said the man in black, 
“ I have not much to say ; my see has generally in what it does a 
tolerably good motive ; these heretics possess in plenty what my see 
has a great hankering for, and can turn to a good account — money ! ” 

“The founder of the Christian religion cared nothing for 
money,” said I. 

“ What have we to do with what the founder of the Christian 
religion cared for ? ” said the man in black ; “ how could our 
temples be built, and our priests supported without money ? but 
you are unwise to reproach us with a desire of obtaining money ; 
you forget that your own church, if the Church of England be 
your own church, as I suppose it is, from the willingness which 
you displayed in the public-house to fight for it, is equally 
avaricious ; look at your greedy Bishops, and your corpulent 
Rectors ; do they imitate Christ in His disregard for money ? Go 
to ! you might as well tell me that they imitate Christ in His 
meekness and humility.” 

“Well,” said I, “whatever their faults may be, you can’t 
say that they go to Rome for money.” 

The man in black made no direct answer, but appeared by 
the motion of his lips to be repeating something to himself. 

“ I see your glass is again empty,” said I; “perhaps you will 
replenish it.” 

The man in black arose from his seat, adjusted his habiliments, 
which were rather in disorder, and placed upon his head his hat, 
which he had laid aside, then, looking at me, who was still lying 
on the ground, he said : “ I might, perhaps, take another glass, 
though I believe I have had quite as much as I can well bear ; 
but I do not wish to hear you utter anything more this evening 
after that last observation of yours — it is quite original; I will 
meditate upon it on my pillow this night after having said an ave 
and a pater — go to Rome for money ! ” He then made Belle a 
low bow, slightly motioned to me with his hand as if bidding 
farewell, and then left the dingle with rather uneven steps. 

“ Go to Rome for money,” I heard him say as he ascended the 
winding path, “ he ! he ! he ! Go to Rome for money, ho ! ho ! ho I ” 


CHAPTER XCV. 


Nearly three days elapsed without anything of particular moment 
occurring. Belle drove the little cart containing her merchandise 
about the neighbourhood, returning to the dingle towards the 
evening. As for myself, I kept within my wooded retreat, working 
during the periods of her absence leisurely at my forge. Having 
observed that the quadruped which my companion drove was as 
much in need of shoes as my own had been some time previously, 
I had determined to provide it with a set, and during the afore- 
said periods occupied myself in preparing them. As I was employed 
three mornings and afternoons about them, I am sure that 
the reader will agree that I worked leisurely, or rather lazily. 
On the third day Belle arrived somewhat later than usual ; I was 
lying on my back at the bottom of the dingle, employed in tossing 
up the shoes, which I had produced, and catching them as they 
fell, some being always in the air mounting or descending, 
somewhat after the fashion of the waters of a fountain. 

“ Why have you been absent so long?” said I to Belle, “ it 
must be long past four by the day.” 

“ I have been almost killed by the heat,” said Belle ; “ I was 
never out in a more sultry day — the poor donkey, too, could 
scarcely move along.” 

“ He shall have fresh shoes,” said I, continuing my exercise; 
“ here they are, quite ready; to-morrow I will tack them on.” 

“ And why are you playing with them in that manner ? ” said 
Belle. 

“ Partly in triumph at having made them, and partly to show 
that I can do something besides making them ; it is not every one 
who, after having made a set of horse-shoes, can keep them going 
up and down in the air, without letting one fall.” 

" One has now fallen on your chin,” said Belle. 

“And another on my cheek,” said I, getting up; “ it is time 
to discontinue the game, for the last shoe drew blood.” 

Belle went to her own little encampment ; and as for myself, 
after having flung the donkey’s shoes into my tent, I put some 

( 51° ) 


“ ASH, WHEN GREEN: 


1825.] 




5ii 


fresh wood on the fire, which was nearly out, and hung the kettle 
over it. I then issued forth from the dingle, and strolled round 
the wood that surrounded it ; for a long time I was busied in 
meditation, looking at the ground, striking with my foot, half 
unconsciously, the tufts of grass and thistles that I met in my way. 
After some time, I lifted up my eyes to the sky, at first vacantly, 
and then with more attention, turning my head in all directions for 
a minute or two ; after which I returned to the dingle. Isopel was 
seated near the fire, over which the kettle was now hung ; she had 
changed her dress — no signs of the dust and fatigue of her late 
excursion remained ; she had just added to the fire a small billet 
of wood, two or three of which I had left beside it ; the fire 
cracked, and a sweet odour filled the dingle. 

“Iam fond of sitting by a wood fire,” said Belle, “when abroad, 
whether it be hot or cold ; I love to see the flames dart out of the 
wood ; but what kind is this, and where did you get it ? ” 

“ It is ash,” said I, “ green ash. Somewhat less than a week 
ago, whilst I was wandering along the road by the side of a wood, 
I came to a place where some peasants were engaged in cutting up 
and clearing away a confused mass of fallen timber : a mighty-aged 
oak had given way the night before, and in its fall had shivered 
some smaller trees ; the upper part of the oak, and the fragments 
of the rest, lay across the road. I purchased, for a trifle, a 
bundle or two, and the wood on the fire is part of it — ash, green 
ash.” 

“ That makes good the old rhyme,” said Belle, “ which I have 
heard sung by the old woman in the great house 

‘ Ash, when green, 

Is fire for a queen.’ ” 

“ And on fairer form of queen, ash fire never shone,” said I, 
“ than on thine, O beauteous queen of the dingle.” 

“ I am half disposed to be angry with you, young man,” said 
Belle. 

“ And why not entirely ? ” said I. 

Belle made no reply. 

“Shall I tell you?” I demanded. “You had no objection 
to the first part of the speech, but you did not like being called 
queen of the dingle. Well, if I had the power, I would make you 
queen of something better than the dingle — Queen of China. 
Come, let us have tea.” 

“ Something less would content me,” said Belle, sighing, as 
she rose to prepare our evening meal. 


5*2 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


So we took tea together, Belle and I. “ How delicious tea 
is after a hot summer’s day, and a long walk,” said she. 

“ I dare say it is most refreshing then,” said I ; “ but I have 
heard people say that they most enjoy it on a cold winter’s night, 
when the kettle is hissing on the fire, and their children playing 
on the hearth.” 

Belle sighed. “ Where does tea come from ? ” she presently 
demanded. 

“ From China,” said I ; “ I just now mentioned it, and the 
mention of it put me in mind of tea.” 

“ What kind of country is China ?” 

“ I know very little about it ; all I know is, that it is a very 
large country far to the East, but scarcely large enough to contain 
its inhabitants, who are so numerous, that though China does not 
cover one-ninth part of the world, its inhabitants amount to one- 
third of the population of the world.” 

“ And do they talk as we do ? ” 

“ Oh no ! I know nothing of their language ; but I have heard 
that it is quite different from all others, and so difficult that none 
but the cleverest people amongst foreigners can master it, on 
which account, perhaps, only the French pretend to know any- 
thing about it.” 

“ Are the French so very clever, then ? ” said Belle. 

“ They say there are no people like them, at least in Europe. 
But talking of Chinese reminds me that I have not for some time 
past given you a lesson in Armenian. The word for tea in Ar- 
menian is — by-the-bye, what is the Armenian word for tea ? ” 

“ That’s your affair, not mine,” said Belle ; “ it seems hard 
that the master should ask the scholar.” 

“ Well,” said I, “ whatever the word may be in Armenian, it 
is a noun ; and as we have never yet declined an Armenian noun 
together, we may as well take this opportunity of declining one. 
Belle, there are ten declensions in Armenian ! ” 

“ What's a declension ? ” 

“ The way of declining a noun.” 

“ Then, in the civilest way imaginable, I decline the noun. 
Is that a declension?” 

“You should never play on words ; to do so is low vulgar, 
smelling of the pothouse, the workhouse. Belle, I insist on your 
declining an Armenian noun.” 

“ I have done so already,” said Belle. 

“If you go on in this way,” said I, * I shall decline taking 
any more tea with you. Will you decline an Armenian noun ? ” 


THE DECLENSION. 


5i3 


1825O 


“ I don’t like the language,” said Belle. “If you must teach 
me languages, why not teach me French or Chinese ? J ’ 

“ I know nothing of Chinese ; and as for French, none but a 
Frenchman is clever enough to speak it — to say nothing of teach- 
ing ; no, we will stick to Armenian, unless, indeed, you would 
prefer Welsh ! ” 

“ Welsh, I have heard, is vulgar,” said Belle ; “ so, if I must 
learn one of the two, I will prefer Armenian, which I never heard 
of till you mentioned it to me ; though of the two, I really think 
Welsh sounds best.” 

“ The Armenian noun,” said I, “ which I propose for your 
declension this night, is . . . which signifieth Master.” 

“ I neither like the word nor the sound,” said Belle. 

“ I can’t help that,” said I ; “it is the word I choose ; Master, 
with all its variations, being the first noun, the sound of which I 
would have you learn from my lips. Come, let us begin — 

“ A master ... Of a master, etc. Repeat — ” 

“ I am not much used to say the word,” said Belle. “ But, 
to oblige you, I will decline it as you wish ; ” and thereupon 
Belle declined master in Armenian. 

“ You have declined the noun very well,” said I ; “ that is in 
the singular number ; we will now go to the plural.” 

“ What is the plural ? ” said Belle. 

“ That which implies more than one, for example, masters ; 
you shall now go through masters in Armenian.” 

“ Never,” said Belle, “never; it is bad to have one master, 
but more I would never bear, whether in Armenian or English.” 

“You do not understand,” said I ; “ I merely want you to 
decline masters in Armenian.” 

“ I do decline them ; I will have nothing to do with them, 

nor with master either ; I was wrong to What sound is 

that? ” 

“ I did not hear it, but I daresay it is thunder ; in Ar- 
menian ” 

“ Never mind what it is in Armenian ; but why do you think 
it is thunder ? ” 

“ Ere I returned from my stroll, I looked up into the heavens, 
and by their appearance I judged that a storm was nigh at hand.” 

“ And why did you not tell me so ? ” 

“You never asked me about the state of the atmosphere, and 
I am not in the habit of giving my opinion to people on any 
subject, unless questioned. But, setting that aside, can you blame 
me for not troubling you with forebodings about storm and 

33 


5 M 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


tempest, which might have prevented the pleasure you promised 
yourself in drinking tea, or perhaps a lesson in Armenian, though 
you pretend to dislike the latter.” 

“ My dislike is not pretended,” said Belle ; “ I hate the sound 
of it, but I love my tea, and it was kind of you not to wish to cast 
a cloud over my little pleasures; the thunder came quite time 
enough to interrupt it without being anticipated — there is another 
peal — I will clear away, and see that my tent is in a condition to 
resist the storm, and I think you had better bestir yourself.” 

Isopel departed, and I remained seated on my stone, as 
nothing belonging to myself required any particular attention ; in 
about a quarter of an hour she returned, and seated herself upon 
her stool. 

“ How dark the place is become since I left you,” said she ; 
“just as if night were just at hand.” 

“ Look up at the sky,” said I, “and you will not wonder ; it 
is all of a deep olive. The wind is beginning fo rise ; hark how 
it moans among the branches ; and see how their tops are bend- 
ing — it brings dust on its wings — I felt some fall on my face ; and 
what is this, a drop of rain ? ” 

“We shall have plenty anon,” said Belle; “do you hear? it 
already begins to hiss upon the embers ; that fire of ours will soon 
be extinguished.” 

“It is not probable that we shall want it,” said I, “but we 
had better seek shelter ; let us go into my tent.” 

“ Go in,” said Belle, “ but you go in alone ; as for me, I will 
seek my own.” 

“You are right,” said I, “to be afraid of me; I have taught 
you to decline master in Armenian.” 

“You almost tempt me,” said Belle, “to make you decline 
mistress in English.” 

“ To make matters short,” said I, “ I decline a mistress.” 

“ What do you mean? ” said Belle angrily. 

“ I have merely done what you wished me,” said I, “ and in 
your own style ; there is no other way of declining anything in 
English, for in English there are no declensions.” 

“The rain is increasing,” said Belle. 

It is so, said I ; “I shall go to my tent ; you may come, 
if you please ; I do assure you I am not afraid of you.” 

“Nor I of you,” said Belle; “so I will come. Why should 
I be afraid ? I can take my own part ; that is ” 

We went into the tent and sat down, and now the rain began 
to pour with vehemence. “ I hope we shall not be flooded in 


1825.] 


“ VOICE OF THE LORD: 


5 i 5 


this hollow,” said I to Belle. “ There is no fear of that,” said 
Belle ; “ the wandering people, amongst other names, call it the 
dry hollow. I believe there is a passage somewhere or other by 
which the wet is carried off. There must be a cloud right above 
us, it is so dark. Oh ! what a flash ! ” 

“And what a peal,” said I; “that is what the Hebrews call 
Koul Adonai — the voice of the Lord. Are you afraid ? ” 

“ No,” said Belle, “I rather like to hear it.” 

“ You are right,” said I; “lam fond of the sound of thunder 
myself. There is nothing like it; Koul Adonai behadar ; the voice 
of the Lord is a glorious voice, as the prayer-book version hath it.” 

“ There is something awful in it,” said Belle ; “ and then the 
lightning, the whole dingle is now in a blaze.” 

“‘The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and 
discovereth the thick bushes.’ As you say, there is something 
awful in thunder.” 

“There are all kinds of noises above us,” said Belle; “surely 
I heard the crashing of a tree ? ” 

“ ‘-The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedar trees,’ ” said I, 
“ but what you hear is caused by a convulsion of the air ; during 
a thunderstorm there are occasionally all kinds of aerial noises. 
Ab Gwilym, who, next to King David, has best described a 
thunderstorm, speaks of these aerial noises in the following 
manner : — 

‘ Astonied now I stand at strains, 

As of ten thousand clanking chains ; 

And once, methought, that overthrown, 

The welkin’s oaks came whelming down ; 

Upon my head up starts my hair : 

Why hunt abroad the hounds of air ? 

What cursed hag is screeching high, 

Whilst crash goes all her crockery ? ’ 

You would hardly believe, Belle, that though I offered at least 
ten thousand lines nearly as good as those to the booksellers in 
London, the simpletons were so blind to their interest as to 
refuse purchasing them.” 

“ I don’t wonder at it,” said Belle, “especially if such dread- 
ful expressions frequently occur as that towards the end; surely 
that was the crash of a tree ? ” 

“Ah!” said I, “there falls the cedar tree — I mean the 
sallow; one of the tall trees on the outside of the dingle has 
been snapped short.” 

“ What a pity,” said Belle, “that the fine old oak, which you 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


516 


saw the peasants cutting up, gave way the other night, when 
scarcely a breath of air was stirring ; how much better to have 
fallen in a storm like this, the fiercest I remember.” 

“ I don’t think so,” said I ; “after braving a thousand tem- 
pests, it was meeter for it to fall of itself than to be vanquished 
at last. But to return to Ab Gwilym’s poetry, he was above 
culling dainty words, and spoke boldly his mind on all subjects. 
Enraged with the thunder for parting him and Morfydd, he says, 
at the conclusion of his ode : — 

‘ My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee, 

For parting my dear pearl and me V’ 

“You and I shall part; that is, I shall go to my tent if you 
persist in repeating from him. The man must have been a 
savage. A poor wood-pigeon has fallen dead.” 

“Yes,” said I, “there he lies just outside the tent; often 
have I listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. So 
you do not like Ab Gwilym ; what say you to old Gothe : — 

‘ Mist shrouds the night, and rack ; 

Hear, in the woods, what an awful crack 1 
Wildly the owls are flitting, 

Hark to the pillars splitting 
Of palaces verdant ever, 

The branches quiver and sever, 

The mighty stems are creaking, 

The poor roots breaking and shrieking, 

In wild mixt ruin down dashing, 

O’er one another they’re crashing ; 

Whilst ’midst the rocks so hoary, 

Whirlwinds hurry and worry. 

Hear’st not, sister ’ ” 

“ Hark ! ” said Belle, “ hark ! ” 

“ ‘ Hear’st not, sister, a chorus 
Of voices ? ’ ” 


“ No,” said Belle, “but I hear a voice. 


CHAPTER XCVI. 


I listened attentively, but I could hear nothing but the loud 
clashing of branches, the pattering of rain, and the muttered 
growl of thunder. I was about to tell Belle that she must have 
been mistaken, when I heard a shout, indistinct it is true, owing 
to the noises aforesaid, from some part of the field above the 
dingle. “I will soon see what’s the matter,” said I to Belle, 
starting up. “ I will go, too,” said the girl. “ Stay where you 
are,” said I ; “ if I need you, I will call ; ” and, without waiting 
for any answer, I hurried to the mouth of the dingle. I was 
about a few yards only from the top of the ascent, when I beheld 
a blaze of light, from whence I knew not ; the next moment 
there was a loud crash, and I appeared involved in a cloud of 
sulphurous smoke. “ Lord have mercy upon us,” I heard a 
voice say, and methought I heard the plunging and struggling of 
horses. I had stopped short on hearing the crash, for I was half 
stunned ; but I now hurried forward, and in a moment stood 
upon the plain. Here I was instantly aware of the cause of the 
crash and the smoke. One of those balls, generally called fire- 
balls, had fallen from the clouds, and was burning on the plain 
at a short distance ; and the voice which I had heard, and the 
plunging, were as easily accounted for. Near the left-hand corner 
of the grove which surrounded the dingle, and about ten yards 
from the fire-ball, I perceived a chaise, with a postillion on the 
box, who was making efforts, apparently useless, to control his 
horses, which were kicking and plunging in the highest degree 
of excitement. I instantly ran towards the chaise, in order to 
offer what help was in my power. “Help me,” said the poor 
fellow, as I drew nigh ; but, before I could reach the horses, they 
had turned rapidly round, one of the fore-wheels flew from its axle- 
tree, the chaise was overset, and the postillion flung violently from 
his seat upon the field. The horses now became more furious 
than before, kicking desperately, and endeavouring to disengage 
themselves from the fallen chaise. As I was hesitating whether to 
run to the assistance of the postillion, or endeavour to disengage 

(5 1 7) 


5x8 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


the animals, I heard the voice of Belle exclaiming : “ See to the 
horses, I will look after the man”. She had, it seems, been alarmed 
by the crash which accompanied the fire-bolt, and had hurried up 
to learn the cause. I forthwith seized the horses by the heads, and 
used all the means I possessed to soothe and pacify them, em- 
ploying every gentle modulation of which my voice was capable. 
Belle, in the meantime, had raised up the man, who was much 
stunned by his fall ; but presently recovering his recollection to a 
certain degree, he came limping to me, holding his hand to his 
right thigh. “The first thing that must now be done,” said I, 
“is to free these horses from the traces ; can you undertake to do 
so ? ” “I think I can,” said the man, looking at me somewhat 
stupidly. “ I will help,” said Belle, and without loss of time laid 
hold of one of the traces. The man, after a short pause, also set 
to work, and in a few minutes the horses were extricated. “ Now,” 
said I to the man, “ what is next to be done?” “ I don’t know,” 
said he; “indeed, I scarcely know anything; I have been so 
frightened by this horrible storm, and so shaken by my fall.” 
“ I think,” said I, “that the storm is passing away, so cast your 
fears away too ; and as for your fall, you must bear it as lightly as 
you can. I will tie the horses amongst those trees, and then we 
will all betake us to the hollow below.” “ And what’s to become 
of my chaise?” said the postillion, looking ruefully on the fallen 
vehicle. “ Let us leave the chaise for the present,” said I ; “we 
can be of no use to it.” “ I don’t like to leave my chaise lying 
on the ground in this weather,” said the man ; “ I love my chaise, 
and him whom it belongs to.” “ You are quite right to be fond 
of yourself,” said I, “ on which account I advise you to seek 
shelter from the rain as soon as possible.” “ I was not talking 
of myself,” said the man, “but my master, to whom the chaise 
belongs.” “I thought you called the chaise yours,” said I. 
“ That’s my way of speaking,” said the man ; “ but the chaise is 
my master’s, and a better master does not live. Don’t you think 
we could manage to raise up the chaise?” “And what is to 
become of the horses?” said I. “ I love my horses well enough,” 
said the man; “but they will take less harm than the chaise. 
We two can never lift up that chaise.” “ But we three can,” said 
Belle; “at least, I think so; and I know where to find two poles 
which will assist us.” “ You had better go to the tent,” said I, 
“you will be wet through.” “I care not for a little wetting,” 
said Belle ; “ moreover, I have more gowns than one — see you 
after the horses.” Thereupon, I led the horses past the mouth 
of the dingle, to a place where a gap in the hedge afforded ad- 


1825.] 


A GUEST. 


519 


mission to the copse or plantation, on the southern side. Forcing 
them through the gap, I led them to a spot amidst the trees, 
which I deemed would afford them the most convenient place for 
standing ; then, darting down into the dingle, I brought up a 
rope, and also the halter of my own nag, and with these fastened 
them each to a separate tree in the best manner I could. This 
done, I returned to the chaise and the postillion. In a minute 
or two Belle arrived with two poles, which, it seems, had long 
been lying, overgrown with brushwood, in a ditch or hollow 
behind the plantation. With these both she and I set to work in 
endeavouring to raise the fallen chaise from the ground. 

We experienced considerable difficulty in this undertaking ; 
at length, with the assistance of the postillion, we saw our efforts 
crowned with success — the chaise was lifted up, and stood upright 
on three wheels. 

“We may leave it here in safety,” said I, “for it will hardly 
move away on three wheels, even supposing it could run by itself ; 
I am afraid there is work here for a wheelwright, in which case I 
cannot assist you ; if you were in need of a blacksmith it would 
be otherwise.” “ I don’t think either the wheel or the axle is 
hurt,” said the postillion, who had been handling both ; “it is 
only the linch-pin having dropped out that caused the wheel to 
fly off; if I could but find the linch-pin ! though, perhaps, it fell 
out a mile away.” “ Very likely,” said I ; “but never mind the 
linch-pin, I can make you one, or something that will serve : but 
I can’t stay here any longer, I am going to my place below with 
this young gentlewoman, and you had better follow us.” “ I am 
ready,” said the man ; and after lifting up the wheel and propping 
it against the chaise, he went with us, slightly limping, and with 
his hand pressed to his thigh. 

As we were descending the narrow path, Belle leading the 
way, and myself the last of the party, the postillion suddenly 
stopped short, and looked about him. “Why do you stop?” 
said I. “ I don’t wish to offend you,” said the man ; “ but this 
seems to be a strange place you are leading me into ; I hope you 
and the young gentlewoman, as you call her, don’t mean me any 
harm — you seemed in a great hurry to bring me here.” “ We 
wished to get you out of the rain,” said I, “ and ourselves too ; 
that is, if we can, which I rather doubt, for the canvas of a tent is 
slight shelter in such a rain ; but what harm should we wish to 
do" you ? ” “ You may think I have money,” said the man, “ and 

I have some, but only thirty shillings, and for a sum like that it 
would be hardly worth while to ” “Would it not?” said 


520 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


I ; “ thirty shillings, after all, are thirty shillings, and for what I 
know, half a dozen throats may have been cut in this place for 
that sum at the rate of five shillings each ; moreover, there are the 
horses, which would serve to establish this young gentlewoman 
and myself in housekeeping, provided we were thinking of such a 
thing.” “ Then I suppose I have fallen into pretty hands,” said 
the man, putting himself in a posture of defence ; “ but I’ll show 
no craven heart ; and if you attempt to lay hands on me, I’ll try 
to pay you in your own coin. I’m rather lamed in the leg, but I 
can still use my fists ; so come on both of you, man and woman, 
if woman this be, though she looks more like a grenadier.” 

“ Let me hear no more of this nonsense,” said Belle ; “ if you 
are afraid, you can go back to your chaise — we only seek to do 
you a kindness.” 

“Why, he was just now talking of cutting throats,” said 
the man. “You brought it on yourself,” said Belle; “you 
suspected us, and he wished to pass a joke upon you ; he would 
not hurt a hair of your head, were your coach laden with gold, nor 
would I.” “ Well,” said the man, “ I was wrong — here’s my 

hand to both of you,” shaking us by the hands ; “ I’ll go with 
you where you please, but I thought this a strange, lonesome 
place, though I ought not much to mind strange, lonesome places, 
having been in plenty of such when I was a servant in Italy, 
without coming to any harm — come, let us move on, for ’tis a 
shame to keep you two in the rain.” 

So we descended the path which led into the depths of the 
dingle ; at the bottom I conducted the postillion to my tent, 
which, though the rain dripped and trickled through it, afforded 
some shelter; there I bade him sit down on the log of wood, 
while 1 placed myself as usual on my stone. Belle in the mean- 
time had repaired to her own place of abode. After a little time, 
I produced a bottle of the cordial of which I have previously had 
occasion to speak, and made my guest take a considerable 
draught. I then offered him some bread and cheese, which he 
accepted with thanks. In about an hour the rain had much 
abated: “What do you now propose to do? ’’said I. “I 
scarcely know,” said the man ; “ I suppose I must endeavour to 
put on the wheel with your help.” “ How far are you from your 
home?” I demanded. “Upwards of thirty miles,” said the 
man ; “my master keeps an inn on the great north road, and 
from thence I started early this morning with a family which I 
conveyed across the country to a hall at some distance from here. 
On my return I was beset by the thunderstorm, which frightened 


1825.] 


THE POSTILLION. 


52i 


the horses, who dragged the chaise off the road to the field above, 
and overset it as you saw. I had proposed to pass the night at 
an inn about twelve miles from here on my way back, though how 
I am to get there to-night I scarcely know, even if we can put on 
the wheel, for, to tell you the truth, I am shaken by my fall, and 
the smoulder and smoke of that fire-ball have rather bewildered 
my head ; I am, moreover, not much acquainted with the way.” 

“The best thing you can do,” said I, “is to pass the night 
here ; I will presently light a fire, and endeavour to make you 
comfortable — in the morning we will see to your wheel.” “Well,” 
said the man, “ I shall be glad to pass the night here, provided I 
do not intrude, but I must see to the horses.” Thereupon I 
conducted the man to the place where the horses were tied. 
“ The trees drip very much upon them,” said the man, “ and it will 
not do for them to remain here all night ; they will be better out 
on the field picking the grass, but first of all they must have a 
good feed of corn ; ” thereupon he went to his chaise, from which 
he presently brought two small bags, partly filled with corn ; into 
them he inserted the mouths of the horses, tying them over their 
heads. “ Here we will leave them for a time,” said the man ; 
“ when I think they have had enough, I will come back, tie their 
fore-legs, and let them pick about.” 


CHAPTER XCVII. 


It might be about ten o’clock at night. Belle, the postillion, 
and myself, sat just within the tent, by a fire of charcoal which I 
had kindled in the chafing-pan. The man had removed the 
harness from his horses, and, after tethering their legs, had left 
them for the night in the field above, to regale themselves on 
what grass they could find. The rain had long since entirely 
ceased, and the moon and stars shone bright in the firmament, 
up to which, putting aside the canvas, I occasipnally looked from 
the depths of the dingle. Large drops of water, however, falling 
now and then upon the tent from the neighbouring trees, would 
have served, could we have forgotten it, to remind us of the 
recent storm, and also a certain chilliness in the atmosphere, 
unusual to the season, proceeding from the moisture with which 
the ground was saturated ; yet these circumstances only served to 
make our party enjoy the charcoal fire the more. There we sat 
bending over it : Belle, with her long beautiful hair streaming 
over her magnificent shoulders ; the postillion smoking his pipe, 
in his shirt-sleeves and waistcoat, having flung aside his great- 
coat, which had sustained a thorough wetting; and I without my 
wagoner’s slop, of which, it being in the same plight, I had also 
divested myself. 

The new comer was a well-made fellow of about thirty, with an 
open and agreeable countenance. I found him very well informed 
for a man in his station, and with some pretensions to humour. 
After we had discoursed for some time on indifferent subjects, the 
postillion, who had exhausted his pipe, took it from his mouth, 
and, knocking out the ashes upon the ground, exclaimed : “ I 
little thought, when I got up in the morning, that I should spend 
the night in such agreeable company, and after such a fright ”. 

“ Well,” said I, “ I am glad that your opinion of us has 
improved ; it is not long since you seemed to hold us in rather 
a suspicious light.” 

“And no wonder,” said the man, “seeing the place you 
were taking me to. I was not a little, but very much afraid of 
ye both ; and so I continued for some time, though, not to show 

(522^ 


1825.] 


SPECULATIONS. 


5^3 


a craven heart, I pretended to be quite satisfied ; but I see I was 
altogether mistaken about ye. I thought you vagrant Gypsy 
folks and trampers ; but now ” 

“Vagrant Gypsy folks and trampers,” said I ; “ and what are 
we but people of that stamp ? ” 

“Oh,” said the postillion, “if you wish to be thought such, 
I am far too civil a person to contradict you, especially after your 
kindness to me, but ” 

“ But ! ” said I ; “ what do you mean by but ? I would have 
you to know that I am proud of being a travelling blacksmith : 
look at these donkey-shoes, I finished them this day.” 

The postillion took the shoes and examined them. “So you 
made these shoes?” he cried at last. 

“ To be sure I did ; do you doubt it ? ” 

“ Not in the least,” said the man. 

“Ah ! ah !” said I, “ I thought I should bring you back to 
your original opinion. I am, then, a vagrant Gypsy body, a 
tramper, a wandering blacksmith.” 

“ Not a blacksmith, whatever else you may be,” said the 
postillion laughing. 

“ Then how do you account for my making those shoes ? ” 

“ By your not being a blacksmith,” said the postillion; “no 
blacksmith would have made shoes in that manner. Besides, 
what did you mean just now by saying you had finished these 
shoes to-day ? a real blacksmith would have flung off three or four 
sets of donkey shoes in one morning, but you, I will be sworn, 
have been hammering at these for days, and they do you credit, 
but why? because you are no blacksmith; no, friend, your shoes 
may do for this young gentlewoman’s animal, but I shouldn’t like 
to have my horses shod by you, unless at a great pinch indeed.” 

“ Then,” said I, “ for what do you take me?” 

“ Why, for some runaway young gentleman,” said the postillion. 
“No offence, I hope?” 

“None at all; no one is offended at being taken or mistaken 
for a young gentleman, whether runaway or not ; but from whence 
do you suppose I have run away ? ” 

“ Why, from college,” said the man : “no offence?” 

“ None whatever ; and what induced me to run away from 
college ? ” 

“ A love affair, I’ll be sworn,” said the postillion. “You had 
become acquainted with this young gentlewoman, so she and 
you' ” 

“ Mind how you get on, friend,” said Belle, in a deep serious tone. 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


5M 


“ Pray proceed,” said I ; “ I dare say you mean no offence.” 

“ None in the world,” said the postillion ; “ all I was going to 
say was that you agreed to run away together, you from college, 
and she from boarding-school. Well, there’s nothing to be 
ashamed of in a matter like that, such things are done every day 
by young folks in high life.” 

“ Are you offended?” said I to Belle. 

Belle made no answer ; but, placing her elbows on her knees 
buried her face in her hands. 

“ So we ran away together? ” said I. 

“Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “to Gretna Green, though I 
can’t say that I drove ye, though I have driven many a pair.” 

“ And from Gretna Green we came here ? ” 

“ I’ll be bound you did,” said the man, “ till you could 
arrange matters at home.” 

“ And the horse-shoes?” said I. 

“ The donkey-shoes, you mean,” answered the postillion ; 
“ why, I suppose you persuaded the blacksmith who married you 
to give you, before you left, a few lessons in his trade.” 

“ And we intend 'to stay here till we have arranged matters 
at home?” 

“ Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “ till the old people are pacified 
and they send you letters directed to the next post town, to be left 
till called for, beginning with, ‘ Dear children,’ and enclosing you 
each a cheque for one hundred pounds, when you will leave this 
place, and go home in a coach like gentlefolks, to visit your gover- 
nors ; I should like nothing better than to have the driving of you : 
and then there will be a grand meeting of the two families, and after 
a few reproaches, the old people will agree to do something hand- 
some for the poor thoughtless things ; so you will have a genteel 
house taken for you, and an annuity allowed you. You won’t get 
much the first year, five hundred at the most, in order that the old 
folks may let you feel that they are not altogether satisfied with you, 
and that you are yet entirely in their power ; but the second, if you 
don’t get a cool thousand, may I catch cold, especially should young 
madam here present a son and heir for the old people to fondle, 
destined one day to become sole heir of the two illustrious houses, 
and then all the grand folks in the neighbourhood, who have, 
bless their prudent hearts ! kept rather aloof from you till then, 
for fear you should want anything from them — I say, all the 
carriage people in the neighbourhood, when they see how swim 
mingly matters are going on, will come in shoals to visit you.” 

“ Really,” said I, “you are getting on swimmingly.” 


1825.] 


STRANDED GENTRY. 


525 


“ Oh,” said the postillion, “I was not a gentleman’s servant 
nine years without learning the ways of gentry, and being able to 
know gentry when I see them.” 

“ And what do you say to all this ? ” I demanded of Belle. 

“ Stop a moment,” interposed the postillion, “ I have one 
more word to say : and when you are surrounded by your 
comforts, keeping your nice little barouche and pair, your coach- 
man and livery servant, and visited by all the carriage people in 
the neighbourhood — to say nothing of the time when you come 
to the family estates on the death of the old people — I shouldn’t 
wonder if now and then you look back with longing and regret to 
the days when you lived in the damp, dripping dingle, had no 
better equipage than a pony or donkey-cart, and saw no better 
company than a tramper or Gypsy, except once, when a poor 
postillion was glad to seat himself at your charcoal fire.” 

“ Pray,” said I, “ did you ever take lessons in elocution ? ” 

“ Not directly,” said the postillion ; “but my old master who 
was in Parliament, did, and so did his son, who was intended to 
be an orator. A great professor used to come and give them 
lessons, and I used to stand and listen, by which means I picked 
up a considerable quantity of what is called rhetoric. In what I 
last said, I was aiming at what I have heard him frequently 
endeavouring to teach my governors as a thing indispensably 
necessary in all oratory, a graceful pere — pere — peregrination.” 

“ Peroration, perhaps? ” 

“Just so,” said the postillion ; “ and now I am sure I am not 
mistaken about you ; you have taken lessons yourself, at first 
hand, in the college vacations, and a promising pupil you were, I 
make no doubt. Well, your friends will be all the happier to get 
you back. Has your governor much borough interest?” 

“ I ask you once more,” said I, addressing myself to Belle, 
“ what do you think of the history which this good man has made 
for us ? ” 

“ What should I think of it,” said Belle, still keeping her face 
buried in her hands, “ but that it is mere nonsense?” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said the postillion. 

“Yes,” said the girl, “ and you know it.” 

“ May my leg always ache, if I do,” said the postillion, patting 
his leg with his hand ; “ will you persuade me that this young 
man has never been at college?” 

“ I have never been at college, but ” 

“ Ay, ay,” said the postillion ; “but ” 

“ I have been to the best schools in Britain, to say nothing of 
a celebrated one in Ireland.” 


526 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“Well, then, it comes to the same thing,” said the postillion ; 
“ or perhaps you know more than if you had been at college— and 
your governor ? ” 

“ My governor, as you call him,” said I, “is dead.” 

“And his borough interest?” 

“ My father had no borough interest,” said I ; “ had he 
possessed any, he would perhaps not have died as he did, honour- 
ably poor.” 

“ No, no,” said the postillion ; “ if he had had borough 
interest, he wouldn’t have been poor, nor honourable, though 
perhaps a right honourable. However, with your grand education 
and genteel manners, you made all right at last by persuading this 
noble young gentlewoman to run away from boarding-school with 
you.” 

“I was never at boarding-school,” said Belle, “unless you 
call ” 

“ Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “ boarding-school is vulgar, I 
know : I beg your pardon, I ought to have called it academy, or 
by some other much finer name — you were in something much 
greater than a Boarding-school.” 

“There you are right,” said Belle, lifting up her head and 
looking the postillion full in the face by the light of the charcoal 
fire ; “ for I was bred in the workhouse.” 

“Wooh !” said the postillion. 

“It is true that I am of good ” 

“Ay, ay,” said the postillion, “let us hear ” 

“Of good blood,” continued Belle; “my name is Berners, 
Isopel Berners, though my parents were unfortunate. Indeed, 
with respect to blood, I believe I am of better blood than the 
young man.” 

“ There you are mistaken,” said I ; “by my father’s side I 
am of Cornish blood, and by my mother’s of brave French 
Protestant extraction. Now, with respect to the blood of my 
father — and to be descended well on the father’s side is the 
principal thing — it is the best blood in the world, for the Cornish 
blood, as the proverb says ” 

“ I don’t care what the proverb says,” said Belle ; “ I say my 
blood is the best — my name is Berners, Isopel Berners — it was 
my mother’s name, and is better, I am sure, than any you bear, 
whatever that may be ; and though you say that the descent on the 
father’s side is the principal thing — and I know why you say so,” 
she added with some excitement— “ I say that descent on the 
mother’s side is of most account, because the mother ” 


1825] 


GRETNA GREEN. 


527 


1 Just come from Gretna Green, and already quarrelling,” said 
the postillion. 

“ We do not come from Gretna Green,” said Belle. 

“ Ah, I had forgot,” said the postillion, “ none but great 
people go to Gretna Green. Well, then, from church, and already 
quarrelling about family, just like two great people.” 

“We have never been to church,” said Belle, “and, to 
prevent any more guessing on your part, it will be as well for me 
to tell you, friend, that I am nothing to the young man, and he, 
of course, nothing to me. I am a poor travelling girl, born in a 
workhouse : journeying on my occasions with certain companions, 
I came to this hollow, where my company quarrelled with the 
young man, who had settled down here, as he had a right to do, 
if he pleased ; and not being able to drive him out, they went 
away after quarrelling with me, too, for not choosing to side with 
them ; so I stayed here along with the young man, there being 
room for us both, and the place being as free to me as to him.” 

“ And, in order that you may be no longer puzzled with 
respect to myself,” said I, “ I will give you a brief outline of my 
history. I am the son of honourable parents, who gave me a 
first-rate education, as far as literature and languages went, with 
which education I endeavoured, on the death of my father, to 
advance myself to wealth and reputation in the big city; but 
failing in the attempt, I conceived a disgust for the busy world, 
and determined to retire from it. After wandering about for 
some time, and meeting with various adventures, in one of which 
I contrived to obtain a pony, cart and certain tools, used by 
smiths and tinkers, I came to this place, where I amused myself 
with making horse-shoes, or rather pony-shoes, having acquired 
the art of wielding the hammer and tongs from a strange kind of 
smith — not him of Gretna Green — whom I knew in my child- 
hood. And here I lived, doing harm to no one, quite lonely and 
solitary, till one fine morning the premises were visited by this 
young gentlewoman and her companions. She did herself any- 
thing but justice when she said that her companions quarrelled 
with her because she would not side with them against me ; they 
quarrelled with her, because she came most heroically to my 
assistance as I was on the point of being murdered ; and she 
forgot to tell you, that after they had abandoned her she stood 
by me in the dark hour, comforting and cheering me, when 
unspeakable dread, to which I am occasionally subject, took 
possession of my mind. She says she is nothing to me, even as 
I am nothing to her. I am of course nothing to her, but she is 
mistaken in thinking she is nothing to me. I entertain the 


528 


LA VENGRO . 


[1825. 


highest regard and admiration for her, being convinced that I 
might search the whole world in vain for a nature more heroic 
and devoted. ” 

“And for my part,” said Belle, with a sob, “a more quiet, 
agreeable partner in a place like this I would not wish to have ; 
it is true he has strange ways, and frequently puts words into my 

mouth very difficult to utter ; but — but ” and here she buried 

her face once more in her hands. 

“Well,” said the postillion, “I have been mistaken about 
you ; that is, not altogether, but in part. You are not rich folks, 
it seems, but you are not common people, and that I could have 
sworn. What I call a shame is, that some people I have known 
are not in your place and you in theirs — you with their estates 
and borough interest, they in this dingle with these carts and 
animals ; but there is no help for these things. Were I the great 
Mumbo Jumbo above, I would endeavour to manage matters 
better ; but being a simple postillion, glad to earn three shillings 
a day, I can’t be expected to do much.” 

“ Who is Mumbo Jumbo ? ” said I. 

“ Ah ! ” said the postillion, “ I see there may be a thing or 
two I know better than yourself. Mumbo Jumbo is a god of the 
black coast, to which people go for ivory and gold.” 

“ Were you ever there ? ” I demanded. 

“No,” said the postillion, “but I heard plenty of Mumbo 
Jumbo when I was a boy.” 

“ I wish you would tell us something about yourself. I 
believe that your own real history would prove quite as enter- 
taining, if not more, than that which you imagined about us.” 

“I am rather tired,” said the postillion, “and my leg is 
rather troublesome. I should be glad to try to sleep upon one 
of your blankets. However, as you wish to hear something 
about me, I shall be happy to oblige you ; but your fire is rather 
low, and this place is chilly.” 

Thereupon I arose, and put fresh charcoal on the pan ; then 
taking it outside the tent, with a kind of fan which I had 
fashioned, I fanned the coals into a red glow, and continued 
doing so until the greater part of the noxious gas, which the coals 
are in the habit of exhaling, was exhausted. I then brought it 
into the tent and reseated myself, scattering over the coals a 
small portion of sugar. “No bad smell,” said the postillion; 
“ but upon the whole I think I like the smell of tobacco better ; 
and with your permission I will once more light my pipe.” 

Thereupon he relighted his pipe ; and after taking two or 
three whiffs, began in the following manner. 


CHAPTER XCVIII. 


“I am a poor postillion, as you see; yet, as I have seen a thing 
or two, and heard a thing or two of what is going on in the 
world, perhaps what I have to tell you connected with myself 
may not prove altogether uninteresting. Now, my friends, this 
manner of opening a story is what the man who taught rhetoric 
would call a hex — hex ” 

“ Exordium,” said I. 

“ Just so,” said the postillion ; “ I treated you to a per — per 
— peroration some time ago, so that I have contrived to put the 
cart before the horse, as the Irish orators frequently do in the 
honourable House, in whose speeches, especially those who have 
taken lessons in rhetoric, the per — per — what’s the word? — fre- 
quently goes before the exordium. 

“I was born in the neighbouring county; my father was 
land-steward to a squire of about a thousand a year. My father 
had two sons, of whom I am the youngest by some years. My 
elder brother was of a spirited, roving disposition, and for fear 
that he should turn out what is generally termed ungain, my 
father determined to send him to sea : so once upon a time, 
when my brother was about fifteen, he took him to the great 
sea-port of the county, where he apprenticed him to a captain 
of one of the ships which trade to the high Barbary coast. Fine 
ships they were, I have heard say, more than thirty in number, 
and all belonging to a wonderful great gentleman, who had once 
been a parish boy, but had contrived to make an immense fortune 
by trading to that coast for gold dust, ivory and other strange 
articles ; and for doing so, I mean for making a fortune, had 
been made a knight baronet. So my brother went to the high 
Barbary shore, on board the fine vessel, and in about a year 
returned and came to visit us ; he repeated the voyage several 
times, always coming to see his parents on his return. Strange 
stories he used to tell us of what he had been witness to on the 
high Barbary coast, both off shore and on. He said that the fine 
vessel in which he sailed was nothing better than a painted hell ; 

(529) 34 


530 


La vlngro. 


[1825. 


that the captain was a veritable fiend, whose grand delight was 
in tormenting his men, especially when they were sick, as they 
frequently were, there being always fever on the high Barbary 
coast ; and that though the captain was occasionally sick himself, 
his being so made no difference, or rather it did make a differ- 
ence, though for the worse, he being when sick always more 
inveterate and malignant than at other times. He said that 
once, when he himself was sick, his captain had pitched his face 
all over, which exploit was much applauded by the other high 
Barbary captains ; all of whom, from what my brother said, 
appeared to be of much the same disposition as my brother’s 
captain, taking wonderful delight in tormenting the crews, and 
doing all manner of terrible things. My brother frequently said 
that nothing whatever prevented him from running away from his 
ship, and never returning, but the hope he entertained of one day 
being captain himself, and able to torment people in his turn, 
which he solemnly vowed he would do, as a kind of compensa- 
tion for what he himself had undergone. And if things were 
going on in a strange way off the high Barbary shore amongst 
those who came there to trade, they were going on in a way yet 
stranger with the people who lived upon it. 

“ Oh, the strange ways of the black men who lived on that 
shore, of which my brother used to tell us at home ; selling their 
sons, daughters and servants for slaves, and the prisoners taken 
in battle, to the Spanish captains, to be carried to Havannah, and 
when there, sold at a profit, the idea of which, my brother said, 
went to the hearts of our own captains, who used to say what a 
hard thing it was that free-born Englishmen could not have a 
hand in the traffic, seeing that it was forbidden by the laws of 
their country; talking fondly of the good old times when their 
forefathers used to carry slaves to Jamaica and Barbadoes, 
realising immense profit, besides the pleasure of hearing their 
shrieks on the voyage ; and then the superstitions of the blacks, 
which my brother used to talk of ; their sharks’ teeth, their wisps 
of fowls’ feathers, their half-baked pots, full of burnt bones, of 
which they used to make what they called fetish ; and bow down 
to, and ask favours of, and then, perhaps, abuse and strike, 
provided the senseless rubbish did not give them what they 
asked for; and then, above all, Mumbo Jumbo, the grand fetish 
master, who lived somewhere in the woods, and who used to 
come out every now and then with his fetish companions ; a 
monstrous figure, all wound round with leaves and branches, so 
as to be quite indistinguishable, and, seating himself on the high 


1825.] 


THE POSTILLION'S TALE. 


53 i 


seat in the villages, receive homage from the- people, and also 
gifts and offerings, the most valuable of which were pretty 
damsels, and then betake himself back again, with his followers 
into the woods. Oh, the tales that my brother used to tell us of 
the high Barbary shore ! Poor fellow ! what became of him I 
can’t say ; the last time he came back from a voyage, he told us 
that his captain, as soon as he had brought his vessel to port, and 
settled with his owner, drowned himself off the quay in a fit of 
the horrors, which it seems high Barbary captains, after a certain 
number of years, are much subject to. After staying about a 
month with us, he went to sea again, with another captain ; and 
bad as the old one had been, it appears the new one was worse, 
for, unable to bear his treatment, my brother left his ship off the 
high Barbary shore, and ran away up the country. Some of his 
comrades, whom we afterwards saw, said that there were various 
reports about him on the shore ; one that he had taken on with 
Mumbo Jumbo, and was serving him in his house in the woods, 
in the capacity of swash -buckler, or life-guardsman ; another, 
that he was gone in quest of a mighty city in the heart of the 
negro country ; another, that in swimming a stream he had been 
devoured by an alligator. Now, these two last reports were bad 
enough ; the idea of their flesh and blood being bit asunder by a 
ravenous fish, was sad enough to my poor parents ; and not very 
comfortable was the thought of his sweltering over the hot sands 
in quest of the negro city ; but the idea of their son, their eldest 
child, serving Mumbo Jumbo as swash -buckler, was worst of all, 
and caused my poor parents to shed many a scalding tear. 

“ I stayed at home with my parents until I was about eighteen, 
assisting my father in various ways. I then went to live at the 
squire’s, partly as groom, partly as footman. After living in the 
country some time, I attended the family in a trip of six weeks, 
which they made to London. Whilst there, happening to have some 
words with an old ill-tempered coachman, who had been for a great 
many years in the family, my master advised me to leave, offering 
to recommend me to a family of his acquaintance who were in need 
of a footman. I was glad to accept his offer, and in a few days 
went to my new place. My new master was one of the great 
gentry, a baronet in Parliament, and possessed of an estate of 
about twenty thousand a year ; his family consisted of his lady, a 
son, a fine young man, just coming of age, and two very sweet, 
amiable daughters. I liked this place much better than my first, 
there was so much more pleasant noise and bustle — so much 
more grand company — and so many more opportunities of im- 


532 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825- 


proving myself. Oh, how I liked to see the grand coaches drive 
up to the door, with the grand company ; and though, amidst 
that company, there were some who did not look very grand, 
there were others, and not a few, who did. Some of the ladies 

quite captivated me; there was the Marchioness of in 

particular. This young lady puts me much in mind of her ; it is 
true, the Marchioness, as I saw her then, was about fifteen years 
older than this young gentlewoman is now, and not so tall by 
some inches, but she had the very same hair, and much the same 
neck and shoulders — no offence, I hope? And then some of the 
young gentlemen, with their cool, haughty, care-for-nothing looks, 
struck me as being very fine fellows. There was one in particular, 
whom I frequently used to stare at, not altogether unlike some 
one I have seen hereabouts — he had a slight cast in his eye, and 

but I won’t enter into every particular. And then the 

footmen ! Oh, how those footmen helped to improve me with 
their conversation. Many of them could converse much more 
glibly than their masters, and appeared to have much better taste. 
At any rate, they seldom approved of what their masters did. I 
remember being once with one in the gallery of the play-house, 
when something of Shakspeare’s was being performed ; some one 
in the first tier of boxes was applauding very loudly. ‘ That’s 
my fool of a governor,’ said he ; ‘he is weak enough to like 
Shakspeare — I don’t — he’s so confoundedly low, but he won’t last 
long — going down. Shakspeare culminated’ — I think that was 
the word — ‘ culminated some time ago.’ 

“And then the professor of elocution, of whom my governors 
used to take lessons, and of which lessons I had my share, by 
listening behind the door; but for that professor of elocution I 
should not be able to round my periods — an expression of his — 
in the manner I do. 

“ After I had been three years at this place my mistress died. 
Her death, however, made no great alteration in my way of 
living, the family spending their winters in London, and their 

summers at their old seat in S as before. At last, the young 

ladies, who had not yet got husbands, which was strange enough, 
seeing, as I told you before, they were very amiable, proposed to 
our governor a travelling expedition abroad. The old baronet 
consented, though young master was much against it, saying, 
they would all be much better at home. As the girls persisted, 
however, he at last withdrew his opposition, and even promised 
to follow them, as soon as his parliamentary duties would permit, 
for he was just got into Parliament ; and, like most other young 


1825.] 


THE TALE. 


533 


members, thought that nothing could be done in the House with- 
out him. So the old gentleman and the two young ladies set off, 
taking me with them, and a couple of ladies’ maids to wait upon 
them. First of all, we went to Paris, where we continued three 
months, the old baronet and the ladies going to see the various 
sights of the city and the neighbourhood, and I attending them. 
They soon got tired of sight-seeing, and of Paris too ; and so did 
I. However, they still continued there, in order, I believe, that 
the young ladies might lay in a store of French finery. I should 
have passed my idle time at Paris, of which I had plenty after 
the sight-seeing was over, very unpleasantly, but for Black Jack. 
Eh ! did you never hear of Black Jack ? Ah ! if you had ever 
been an English servant in Paris, you would have known Black 
Jack ; not an English gentleman’s servant who has been at Paris 
for this last ten years but knows Black Jack and his ordinary. 
A strange fellow he was — of what country no one could exactly 
say — for as for judging from speech, that was impossible, Jack 
speaking all languages equally ill. Some said he came direct 
from Satan’s kitchen, and that when he gives up keeping ordi- 
nary, he will return there again, though the generally received 
opinion at Paris was, that he was at one time butler to King 
Pharaoh, and that, after lying asleep for four thousand years in 
a place called the Kattycombs, he was awaked by the sound of 
Nelson’s canon, at the battle of the Nile ; and going to the shore 
took on with the admiral, and became, in course of time, ship 
steward ; and that after Nelson’s death, he was captured by the 
French, on board one of whose vessels he served in a somewhat 
similar capacity till the peace, when he came to Paris, and set up 
an ordinary for servants, sticking the name of Katcomb over the 
door, in allusion to the place where he had his long sleep. But, 
whatever his origin was, Jack kept his own counsel, and appeared 
to care nothing for what people said about him, or called him. 
Yes, I forgot, there was one name he would not be called, and 
that was Portuguese. I once saw Black Jack knock down a 
coachman, six foot high, who called him black-faced Portuguese. 
‘Any name but dat, you shab,’ said Black Jack, who was a little 
round fellow, of about five feet two ; ‘ I would not stand to be 
called Portuguese by Nelson himself.’ Jack was rather fond of 
talking about Nelson, and hearing people talking about him, so 
that it is not improbable that he may have sailed with him ; and 
with respect to his having been King Pharaoh’s butler, all I have 
to say is, I am not disposed to give the downright lie to the 
report. Jack was always ready to do a kind turn tp a poor 


534 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


'servant out of place, and has often been known to assist such as 
were in prison, which charitable disposition he perhaps acquired 
from having lost a good place himself, having seen the inside of 
a prison, and known the want of a meal’s victuals, all which 
trials King Pharaoh’s butler underwent, so he may have been 
that butler ; at any rate, I have known positive conclusions come 
to, on no better premises, if indeed as good. As for the story 
of his coming direct from Satan’s kitchen, I place no confidence 
in it at all, as Black Jack had nothing of Satan about him, but 
blackness, on which account he was called Black Jack. Nor am 
I disposed to give credit to a report that his hatred of the Portu- 
guese arose from some ill treatment which he had once experi- 
enced when on shore, at Lisbon, from certain gentlewomen of 
the place, but rather conclude that it arose from an opinion he 
entertained that the Portuguese never paid their debts, one of the 
ambassadors of that nation, whose house he had served, having 
left Paris several thousand francs in his debt. This is all that I 
have to say about Black Jack, without whose funny jokes, and 
good ordinary, I should have passed my time in Paris in a very 
disconsolate manner. 

“ After we had been at Paris between two and three months, 
we left it in the direction of Italy, which country the family had 
a great desire to see. After travelling a great many days in a 
thing which, though called a diligence, did not exhibit much dili- 
gence, we came to a great big town, seated around a nasty salt- 
water basin, connected by a narrow passage with the sea. Here 
we were to embark; and so we did as soon as possible, glad 
enough to get away ; at least I was, and so I make no doubt were 
the rest ; for such a place for bad smells I never was in. It 
seems all the drains and sewers of the place run into that same 
salt basin, voiding into it all their impurities, which, not being able 
to escape into the sea in any considerable quantity, owing to the 
narrowmess of the entrance, there accumulate, filling the whole 
atmosphere with these same outrageous scents, on which account 
the town is a famous lodging-house of the plague. The ship in 
which we embarked was bound for a place in Italy called Naples, 
where we were to stay some time. The voyage w r as rather a lazy 
one, the ship not being moved by steam; for at the time of 
which I am speaking, some five years ago, steamships were not 
so plentiful as now. There were only two passengers in the 
grand cabin, where my governor and his daughters were, an 
Italian lady and a priest. Of the lady I have not much to say ; 
she appeared to be a quiet respectable person enough, and after 


1825.] 


THE TALE. 


535 


our arrival at Naples, I neither saw nor heard anything more of 
her; but of the priest I shall have a good deal to say in the 
sequel (that, by-the-bye, is a word I learnt from the professor 
of rhetoric), and it would have been well for our family had they 
never met him. 

“ On the third day of the voyage the priest came to me, who 
was rather unwell with sea-sickness, which he, of course, felt 
nothing of, that kind of people being never affected like others. 
He was a finish-looking man of about forty-five, but had something 
strange in his eyes, which I have since thought denoted that all 
was not right in a certain place called the heart. After a few 
words of condolence, in a broken kind of English, he asked me 
various questions about our family ; and I, won by his seeming 
kindness, told him all I knew about them, of which communi- 
cativeness I afterwards very much repented. As soon as he had 
got out of me all he desired, he left me ; and I observed that 
during the rest of the voyage he was wonderfully attentive to our 
governor, and 'yet more to the young ladies. Both, however, 
kept him rather at a distance ; the young ladies were reserved, 
and once or twice I heard our governor cursing him between his 
teeth for a sharking priest. The priest, however, was not dis- 
concerted, and continued his attentions, which in a little time 
produced an effect, so that, by the time we landed at Naples, our 
great folks had conceived a kind of liking for the man, and when 
they took their leave invited him to visit them, which he promised 
to do. We hired a grand house or palace at Naples ; it belonged 
to a poor kind of prince, who was glad enough to let it to our 
governor, and also his servants and carriages ; and glad enough 
were the poor servants, for they got from us what they never got 
from the prince — plenty of meat and money — and glad enough, 
I make no doubt, were the horses for the provender we gave 
them ; and I daresay the coaches were not sorry to be cleaned 
and furbished up. Well, we went out and came in ; going to see 
the sights, and returning. Amongst other things we saw was 
the burning mountain, and the tomb of a certain sorcerer called 
Virgilio, who made witch rhymes, by which he could raise the 
dead. Plenty of people came to see us, both English and 
Italians, and amongst the rest the priest. He did not come 
amongst the first, but allowed us to settle and become a little 
quiet before he showed himself ; and after a day or two he paid 
us another visit, then another, till at last his visits were daily. 

“ I did not like that Jack Priest; so I kept my eye upon all 
his motions. Eord ! bow that Jack Priest did curry favour with 


536 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


our governor and the two young ladies ; and he curried, and 
curried, till he had got himself into favour with the governor, 
and more especially with the two young ladies, of whom their 
father was doatingly fond. At last the ladies took lessons in 
Italian of the priest, a language in which he was said to be a 
grand proficient, and of which they had hitherto known but very 
little ; and from that time his influence over them, and conse- 
quently over the old governor, increased, till the tables were 
turned, and he no longer curried favour with them, but they 
with him ; yes, as true as my leg aches, the young ladies curried, 
and the old governor curried favour with that same priest ; when 
he was with them, they seemed almost to hang on his lips, that 
is, the young ladies ; and as for the old governor, he never con- 
tradicted him, and when the fellow was absent, which, by-the-bye 
was not often, it was ‘ Father so-and-so said this, and Father so- 
and-so said that ; Father so-and-so thinks we should do so-and- 
so, or that we should not do so-and-so I at first thought that 
he must have given them something, some philtre or the like ; 
but one of the English maid-servants, who had a kind of respect 
for me, and who saw much more behind the scenes than I did, 
informed me that he was continually instilling strange notions 
into their heads, striving, by every possible method, to make them 
despise the religion of their own land, and take up that of the 
foreign country in which they were. And sure enough, in a 
little time, the girls had altogether left off going to an English 
chapel, and were continually visiting places of Italian worship. 
The old governor, it is true, still went to his church, but he 
appeared to be hesitating between two opinions ; and once when 
he was at dinner he said to two or three English friends, that 
since he had become better acquainted with it, he had conceived 
a much more favourable opinion of the Catholic religion than he 
had previously entertained. In a word, the priest ruled the 
house, and everything was done according to his will and 
pleasure; by degrees he persuaded the young ladies to drop 
their English acquaintances, whose place he supplied with Italians, 
chiefly females. My poor old governor would not have had a 
person to speak to, for he never could learn the language, but for 
two or three Englishmen who used to come occasionally and 
take a bottle with him, in a summer-house, whose company he 
could not be persuaded to resign, notwithstanding the entreaties 
of his daughters, instigated by the priest, whose grand endeavour 
seemed to be to render the minds of all three foolish, for his own 
ends. And if he was busy above stairs with the governor, there 


1825.] 


THE TALE. 


537 


was another busy belo w with us poor English servants, a kind of 
subordinate priest, a low Italian ; as he could speak no language 
but his own, he was continually jabbering to us in that, and by 
hearing him the maids and myself contrived to pick up a good 
deal of the language, so that we understood most that was said, 
and could speak it v£ry fairly ; and the themes of his jabber were 
the beauty and virtues of one whom he called Holy Mary, and 
the power and grandeur of one whom he called the Holy Father; 
and he told us that we should shortly have an opportunity of seeing 
the Holy Father, who could do anything he liked with Holy Mary : 
in the meantime we had plenty of opportunities of seeing Holy 
Mary, for in every church, chapel and convent to which we were 
taken, there was an image of Holy Mary, who, if the images 
were dressed at all in her fashion, must have been very fond of 
short petticoats and tinsel, and who, if those said figures at all 
resembled her in face, could scarcely have been half as handsome 
as either of my two fellow-servants, not to speak of the young 
ladies. 

“ Now it happened that one of the female servants was much 
taken with what she saw and heard, and gave herself up entirely 
to the will of the subordinate, who had quite as much dominion 
over her as his superior had over the ladies ; the other maid, 
however, the one who had a kind of respect for me, was not so 
easily besotted ; she used to laugh at what she saw, and at what 
the fellow told her, and from her I learnt that amongst other 
things intended by these priestly confederates was robbery ; she 
said that the poor old governor had already been persuaded by 
his daughters to put more than a thousand pounds into the 
superior priest’s hands for purposes of charity and religion, as 
was said, and that the subordinate one had already inveigled her 
fellow-servant out of every penny which she had saved from her 
wages, and had endeavoured likewise to obtain what money she 
herself had, but in vain. With respect to myself, the fellow 
shortly after made an attempt towards obtaining a hundred 
crowns, of which, by some means, he knew me to be in posses- 
sion, telling me what a meritorious thing it was to give one’s 
superfluities for the purposes of religion. ‘ That is true,’ said I, 
‘and if, after my return to my native country, I find I have 
anything which I don’t want myself, I will employ it in helping 
to build a Methodist chapel.’ 

“ By the time that the three months were expired for which 
we had hired the palace of the needy Prince, the old governor 
began to talk of returning to England, at least of leaving Italy, 


538 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


I believe he had become frightened at the calls which were 
continually being made upon him for money ; for after all, you 
know, if there is a sensitive part of a man’s wearing apparel, it is 
his breeches pocket ; but the young ladies could not think of 
leaving dear Italy and the dear priest ; and then they had seen 
nothing of the country, they had only seeif Naples ; before leav- 
ing dear Italia they must see more of the country and the cities ; 
above all, they must see a place which they called the Eternal 
City, or by some similar nonsensical name ; and they persisted 
so that the poor governor permitted them, as usual, to have their 
way ; and it was decided what route they should take, that is, the 
priest was kind enough to decide for them ; and was also kind 
enough to promise to go with them part of the route, as far as a 
place where there was a wonderful figure of Holy Mary, which 
the priest said it was highly necessary for them to see before 
visiting the Eternal City ; so we left Naples in hired carriages, 
driven by fellows they call veturini \ cheating, drunken dogs, I 
remember they were. Besides our own family there was the 
priest and his subordinate, and a couple of hired lackeys. We 
were several days upon the journey, travelling through a very wild 
country, which the ladies pretended to be delighted with, and 
which the governor cursed on account of the badness of the 
roads ; and when we came to any particularly wild spot we used 
to stop, in order to enjoy the scenery, as the ladies said ; and 
then we would spread a horse-cloth on the ground, and eat bread 
and cheese, and drink wine of the country; and some of the 
holes and corners in which we bivouacked, as the ladies called it, 
were something like this place where we are now, so that when I 
came down here it put me in mind of them. At last we arrived 
at the place where was the holy image. 

“ We went to the house or chapel in which the holy image 
was kept, a frightful, ugly black figure of Holy Mary, dressed in 
her usual way ; and after we had stared at the figure, and some 
of our party had bowed down to it, we were shown a great many 
things which were called holy relics, which consisted of thumb- 
nails and fore-nails and toe-nails, and hair and teeth, and a 
feather or two, a mighty thigh-bone, but whether of a man or a 
camel, I can’t say ; all of which things I was told, if properly 
touched and handled, had mighty power to cure all kinds of 
disorders ; and as we went from the holy house, we saw a man in 
a state of great excitement ; he was foaming at the mouth, and 
cursing the holy image and all its household, because, after he 
had worshipped it and made offerings to it, and besought it to 


1825.] 


THE TALE . 


539 


assist him in a game of chance which he was about to play, it had 
left him in the lurch, allowing him to lose all his money ; and 
when I thought of all the rubbish I had seen, and the purposes 
which it was applied to, in conjunction with the rage of the losing 
gamester at the deaf and dumb image, I could not help compar- 
ing the whole with what my poor brother used to tell me of the 
superstitious practices of the blacks on the high Barbary shore, 
and their occasional rage and fury, at the things they worshipped; 
and I said to myself, if all this here doesn’t smell of fetish may I 
smell fetid. 

“ At this place the priest left us, returning to Naples with his 
subordinate, on some particular business, I suppose. It was, 
however, agreed that he should visit us at the Holy City. We 
did not go direct to the Holy City, but bent our course to two or 
three other cities which the family were desirous of seeing, but as 
nothing occurred to us in these places of any particular interest, 
I shall take the liberty of passing them by in silence. At length 
we arrived at the Eternal City ; an immense city it was, looking 
as if it had stood for a long time, and would stand for a long 
time still ; compared with it, London would look like a mere 
assemblage of bee-skeps ; however, give me the bee-skeps with 
their merry hum and bustle, and life and honey, rather than that 
huge town, which looked like a sepulchre, where there was no 
life, no busy hum, no bees, but a scanty, sallow population, inter- 
mixed with black priests, white priests, grey priests ; and though 
I don’t say there was no honey in the place, for I believe there 
was, I am ready to take my Bible oath that it was not made 
there, and that the priests kept it all for themselves.” 


CHAPTER XCIX. 


“The day after our arrival,” ^continued the postillion, “I was 
sent, under the guidance of a lackey of the place, with a letter, 
which the priest, when he left, had given us for a friend of his in 
the Eternal City. We went to a large house, and on ringing, 
were admitted by a porter into a cloister, where I saw some ill- 
looking, shabby young fellows walking about, who spoke English 
to one another. To one of these the porter delivered the letter, 
and the young fellow going away, presently returned and told me 
to follow him ; he led me into a large room, where, behind a 
table, on which were various papers, and a thing, which they call 
in that country a crucifix, sat a man in a kind of priestly dress. 
The lad having opened the door for me, shut it behind me, and 
went away. The man behind the table was so engaged in reading 
the letter which I had brought, that at first he took no notice of 
me; he had red hair, a kind of half-English countenance, and was 
seemingly about five-and-thirty. After a little time he laid the 
letter down, appeared to consider a moment, and then opened 
his mouth with a strange laugh, not a loud laugh, for I heard 
nothing but a kind of hissing deep down the throat; all of a 
sudden, however, perceiving me, he gave a slight start, but 
instantly recovering himself, he inquired in English concerning 
the health of the family, and where we lived ; on my delivering 
him a card, he bade me inform my master and the ladies that in 
the course of the day he would do himself the honour of waiting 
upon them. He then arose and opened the door for me to 
depart ; the man was perfectly civil and courteous, but I did not 
like that strange laugh of his, after having read the letter. He 
was as good as his word, and that same day paid us a visit. It 
was now arranged that we should pass the winter in Rome, to my 
great annoyance, for I wished to return to my native land, being 
heartily tired of everything connected with Italy. I was not, 
however, without hope that our young master would shortly 
arrive, when I trusted that matters, as far as the family were 
concerned, would be put on a better footing. In a few days 
our new acquaintance, who, it seems, was a mongrel Englishman, 

( 54 °) 


1825.] 


TALE CONTINUED. 


54i 


had procured a house for our accommodation ; it was large 
enough, but not near so pleasant as that we had at Naples, which 
was light and airy, with a large garden. This was a dark, gloomy 
structure in a narrow street, with a frowning church beside it ; it 
was not far from the place where our new friend lived, and its 
being so was probably the reason why he selected it. It was 
furnished partly with articles which we bought, and partly with 
those which we hired. We lived something in the same way as 
at Naples ; but though I did not much like Naples, I yet liked it 
better than this place, which was so gloomy. Our new acquaint- 
ance made himself as agreeable as he could, conducting the 
ladies to churches and convents, and frequently passing the 
afternoon drinking with the governor, who was fond of a glass of 
brandy and water and a cigar, as the new acquaintance also was 
— no, I remember, he was fond of gin and water, and did not 
smoke. I don’t think he had so much influence over the young 
ladies as the other priest, which was, perhaps, owing to his not 
being so good-looking ; but I am sure he had more influence 
with the governor, owing, doubtless, to his bearing him company 
in drinking mixed liquors, which the other priest did not do. 

“ He was a strange fellow, that same new acquaintance of 
ours, and unlike all the priests I saw in that country, and I saw 
plenty of various nations — they were always upon their guard, 
and had their features and voice modulated ; but this man was 
subject to fits of absence, during which he would frequently 
mutter to himself ; then, though he was perfectly civil to every- 
body, as far as words went, I observed that he entertained a 
thorough contempt for most people, especially for those whom he 
was making dupes. I have observed him whilst drinking with 
our governor, when the old man’s head was turned, look at him 
with an air which seemed to say, ‘ What a thundering old fool 
you are ! ’ and at our young ladies, when their backs were turned, 
with a glance which said distinctly enough, ‘You precious pair 
of ninnyhammers ’ ; and then his laugh — he had two kinds of 
laughs — one which you could hear, and another which you could 
only see. I have seen him laugh at our governor and the young 
ladies, when their heads were turned away, but I heard no sound. 
My mother had a sandy cat, which sometimes used to open its 
mouth wide with a mew which nobody could hear, and the silent 
laugh of that red-haired priest used to put me wonderfully in 
mind of the silent mew of my mother’s sandy-red cat. And then 
the other laugh, which you could hear ; what a strange laugh that 
was, never loud, yes, I have heard it tolerably loud. He once 


543 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


passed near me, after having taken leave of a silly English fellow 
— a limping parson of the name of Platitude, who they said was 
thinking of turning Papist, and was much in his company ; I was 
standing behind the pillar of a piazza, and as he passed he was 
laughing heartily. Oh, he was a strange fellow, that same red- 
haired acquaintance of ours ! 

“ After we had been at Rome about six weeks, our old friend 
the priest of Naples arrived, but without his subordinate, for 
whose services he now perhaps thought that he had no occasion. 
I believe he found matters in our family wearing almost as 
favourable an aspect as he could desire : with what he had 
previously taught them and shown them at Naples and elsewhere, 
and with what the red-haired confederate had taught them and 
shown them at Rome, the poor young ladies had become quite 
handmaids of superstition, so that they, especially the youngest, 
were prepared to bow down to anything, and kiss anything how- 
ever vile and ugly, provided a priest commanded them ; and as 
for the old governor, what with the influence which his daughters 
exerted, and what with the ascendancy which the red-haired man 
had obtained over him, he dared not say his purse, far less his 
soul, was his own. Only think of an Englishman not being 
master of his own purse. My acquaintance, the lady’s maid, 
assured me, that to her certain knowledge, he had disbursed to 
the red-haired man, for purposes of charity, as it was said, at 
least one thousand pounds during the five weeks we had been at 
Rome. She also told me that things would shortly be brought 
to a conclusion, and so indeed they were, though in a different 
manner from what she and I and some other people imagined ; 
that there was to be a grand festival, and a mass, at which we 
were to be present, after which the family were to be presented 
to the Holy Father, for so those two priestly sharks had managed 

it ; and then she said she was certain that the two ladies, 

and perhaps the old governor, would forsake the religion of their 
native land, taking up with that of these foreign regions, for so 
my lellow-servant expressed it, and that perhaps attempts might 
be made to induce us poor English servants to take up with the 
foreign religion, that is, herself and me, for as for our fellow- 
servant, the other maid, she wanted no inducing, being disposed 
body and soul to go over to it. Whereupon, I swore with an 
oath that nothing should induce me to take up with the foreign 
religion ; and the poor maid, my fellow-servant, bursting into 
tears, said that for her part she would sooner die than have 
anything to do with it; thereupon we shook hands and agreed 


DIG CHURCH. 


543 


1825.] 


<< 


to stand by and countenance one another : and moreover, pro- 
vided our governors were fools enough to go over to the religion 
of these here foreigners, we would not wait to be asked to do the 
like, but leave them at once, and make the best of our way home, 
even if we were forced to beg on the road. 

“ At last the day of the grand festival came, and we were all 
to go to the big church to hear the mass. Now it happened 
that for some time past I had been much afflicted with melan- 
choly, especially when I got up of a morning, produced by the 
strange manner in which I saw things going on in our family ; 
and to dispel it in some degree, I had been in the habit of 
taking a dram before breakfast. On the morning in question, 
feeling particularly low-spirited when I thought of the foolish 
step our governor would probably take before evening, I took two 
drams before breakfast ; and after breakfast, feeling my melancholy 
still continuing, I took another, which produced a slight effect 
upon my head, though I am convinced nobody observed it. 

“ Away we drove to the big church ; it was a dark, misty day, 
I remember, and very cold, so that if anybody had noticed my 
being slightly in liquor, I could have excused myself by saying 
that I had merely taken a glass to fortify my constitution against 
the weather ; and of one thing I am certain, which is, that such 
an excuse would have stood me in stead with our governor, who 
looked, I thought, as if he had taken one too ; but I may be 
mistaken, and why should I notice him, seeing that he took no 
notice of me : so away we drove to the big church, to which all 
the population of the place appeared to be moving. 

“ On arriving there we dismounted, and the two priests who 
were with us led the family in, whilst I followed at a little distance, 
but quickly lost them amidst the throng of people. I made my 
way, however, though in what direction I knew not, except it 
was one in which everybody seemed striving, and by dint of 
elbowing and pushing, I at last got to a place which looked like 
the aisle of a cathedral, where the people stood in two rows, a 
space between being kept open by certain strangely-dressed men 
who moved up and down with rods in their hands ; all were 
looking to the upper end of this place or aisle ; and at the upper 
end, separated from the people by palings like those of an altar, 
sat in magnificent-looking stalls, on the right and the left, various 
wonderful-looking individuals in scarlet dresses. At the farther 
end was what appeared to be an altar, on the left hand was a 
pulpit, and on the right a stall higher than any of the rest, where 
was a figure whom I could scarcely see. 


544 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


“ I can’t pretend to describe what I saw exactly, for my head, 
which was at first rather flurried, had become more so from the 
efforts which I had made to get through the crowd ; also from 
certain singing which proceeded from I know not where, and 
above all from the bursts of an organ which were occasionally so 
loud that I thought the roof, which was painted with wondrous 
colours, would come toppling down on those below. So there 
stood I, a poor English servant, in that outlandish place, in the 
midst of that foreign crowd, looking at that outlandish sight, 
hearing those outlandish sounds, and occasionally glancing at 
our party, which, by this time, I distinguished at the opposite side 
to where 1 stood, but much nearer the place where the red figures 
sat. Yes, there stood our poor governor, and the sweet young 
ladies, and I thought they never looked so handsome before, and 
close by them were the sharking priests, and not far from them 
was that idiotical parson Platitude, winking and grinning, and 
occasionally lifting up his hands as if in ecstasy at what he saw 
and heard, so that he drew upon himself the notice of the 
congregation. 

“ And now an individual mounted the pulpit, and began to 
preach in a language which I did not understand, but which I 
believe to be Latin, addressing himself seemingly to the figure in 
the stall ; and when he had ceased, there was more singing, more 
organ playing, and then two men in robes brought forth two 
things which they held up ; and then the people bowed their 
heads, and our poor governor bowed his head, and the sweet 
young ladies bowed their heads, and the sharking priests, whilst 
the idiotical parson Platitude tried to fling himself down ; and 
then there were various evolutions withinside the pale, and the 
scarlet figures got up and sat down, and this, kind of thing con- 
tinued for some time ; at length the figure which I had seen in 
the principal stall came forth and advanced towards the people ; 
an awful figure he was, a huge old man with a sugar-loaf hat, 
with a sulphur-coloured dress, and holding a crook in his hand 
like that of a shepherd ; and as he advanced the people fell on 
their knees, our poor old governor amongst them ; the sweet young 
ladies, the sharking priests, the idiotical parson Platitude all fell 
on their knees, and somebody or other tried to pull me on my 
knees, but by this time I had become outrageous ; all that my 
• poor brother used to tell me of the superstitions of the high 
Barbary shore rushed into my mind, and I thought they were 
acting them over here ; above all, the idea that the sweet young 
ladies, to say nothing of my poor old governor, were, after the 


1825.] 


MUM BO jumbo: 


545 


conclusion of all this mummery, going to deliver themselves up 
body and soul into the power of that horrid-looking old man, 
maddened me, and, rushing forward into the open space, I con- 
fronted the horrible-looking old figure with the sugar-loaf hat, the 
sulphur-coloured garments, and shepherd’s crook, and shaking 
my fist at his nose, I bellowed out in English : — 

‘“I don’t care for you, old Mumbo Jumbo, though you have 
fetish ! 

“ I can scarcely tell you what occurred for some time. I have 
a dim recollection that hands were laid upon me, and that I 
struck out violently left and right. On coming to myself, I was 
seated on a stone bench in a large room, something like a guarde 
room, in the custody of certain fellows dressed like Merry Andrews ; 
they were bluff, good-looking, wholesome fellows, very different 
from the sallow Italians ; they were looking at me attentively, and 
occasionally talking to each other in a language which sounded 
very like the cracking of walnuts in the mouth, very different from 
cooing Italian. At last one of them asked me in Italian what had 
ailed me, to which I replied, in an incoherent manner, something 
about Mumbo Jumbo ; whereupon the fellow, one of the bluffest of 
the lot, a jovial, rosy-faced rascal, lifted up his right hand, placing 
it in such a manner that the lips were between the forefinger and 
thumb, then lifting up his right foot and drawing back his head, 
he sucked in his breath with a hissing sound, as if to imitate one 
drinking a hearty draught, and then slapped me on the shoulder, 
saying something which sounded like goot wine, goot companion, 
whereupon they all laughed, exclaiming, ya, ya, goot companion. 
And now hurried into the room our poor old governor, with the 
red-haired priest ; the first asked what could have induced me to 
behave in such a manner in such a place, to which I replied that 
I was not going to bow down to Mumbo Jumbo, whatever other 
people might do. Whereupon my master said he believed I was 
mad, and the priest said he believed I was drunk ; to which I 
answered that I was neither so mad nor drunk but I could distin- 
guish how the wind lay. Whereupon they left me, and in a little 
time I was told by the bluff-looking Merry Andrews I was at 
liberty to depart. I believe the priest, in order to please my 
governor, interceded for me in high quarters. 

“But one good resulted from this affair; there was no presen- 
tation of our family to the Holy Father, for old Mumbo was so 
frightened by my outrageous looks that he was laid up for a week, 
as I was afterwards informed. 

“ I went home, and had scarcely been there half an hour 
35 


546 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


when I was sent for by the governor, who again referred to the scene 
in church, said that he could not tolerate such scandalous behaviour, 
and that unless I promised to be more circumspect in future, 
he should be compelled to discharge me. I said that if he was 
scandalised at my behaviour in the church, I was more scandalised 
at all I saw going on in the family, which was governed by two 
rascally priests, who, not content with plundering him, appeared 
bent on hurrying the souls of us all to destruction ; and that with 
respect to discharging me, he could do so that moment, as I 
wished to go. I believe his own reason told him that I was 
right, for he made no direct answer ; but, after looking on the 
ground for some time, he told me to leave him. As he did not 
tell me to leave the house, I went to my room intending to lie 
down for an hour or two ; but scarcely was I there when the door 
opened, and in came the red-haired priest. He showed himself, 
as he always did, perfectly civil, asked me how I was, took a 
chair and sat down. After a hem or two he entered into a long con- 
versation on the excellence of what he called the Catholic religion ; 
told me that he hoped I would not set myself against the light, and 
likewise against my interest ; for that the family were about to em- 
brace the Catholic religion, and would make it worth my while to 
follow their example. I told him that the family might do what they 
pleased, but that I would never forsake the religion of my country 
for any consideration whatever ; that I was nothing but a poor 
servant, but I was not to be bought by base gold. ‘ I admire your 
honourable feelings,’ said he ; ‘ you shall have no gold ; and as I see 
you are a fellow of spirit, and do not like being a servant, for which 
I commend you, I can promise you something better. I have a 
good deal of influence in this place, and if you will not set your 
face against the light, but embrace the Catholic religion, I will 
undertake to make your fortune. You remember those fine 
fellows to-day who took you into custody, they are the guards of his 
Holiness. I have no doubt that I have interest enough to procure 
your enrolment amongst them.’ ‘What,’ said I, ‘become swash- 
buckler to Mumbo Jumbo up here ! May I ’ — and here I 

swore — ‘ if I do. The mere possibility of one of their children 
being swash-buckler to Mumbo Jumbo on the high Barbary shore 
has always been a source of heart-breaking to my poor parents. 
What, then, would they not undergo if they knew for certain that 
their other child was swash-buckler to Mumbo Jumbo up here ? ’ 
Thereupon he asked me, even as you did some time ago, what I 
meant by Mumbo Jumbo? And I told him all I had heard about 
the Mumbo Jumbo of the high Barbary shore ; telling him that I had 


1825.] 


DISILLUSION. 


547 


no doubt that the old fellow up here was his brother, or nearly 
related to him. The man with the red hair listened with the 
greatest attention to all I said, and when I had concluded, he got 
up, nodded to me, and moved to the door ; ere he reached the 
door I saw his shoulders shaking, and as he closed it behind him 
I heard him distinctly laughing, to the tune of — he ! he ! he ! 

“ But now matters began to mend. That same evening my 
young master unexpectedly arrived. I believe he soon perceived 
that something extraordinary had been going on in the family. He 
was for some time closeted with the governor, with whom, I 
believe, he had a dispute ; for my fellow-servant, the ladies’ maid, 
informed me that she heard high words. 

“ Rather late at night the young gentleman sent for me into 
his room, and asked me various questions with respect to what 
had been going on, and my behaviour in the church, of which he 
had heard something. I told him all I knew with respect to the 
intrigues of the two priests in the family, and gave him a circum- 
stantial account of all that had occurred in the church , adding 
that, under similar circumstances, I was ready to play the same 
part over again. Instead of blaming me, he commended my 
behaviour, told me I was a fine fellow, and said he hoped that if he 
wanted my assistance, I would stand by him : this I promised to 
do. Before I left him, he entreated me to inform him the very 
next time I saw the priests entering the house. 

“ The next morning, as I was in the court-yard, where I had 
placed myself to watch, I saw the two enter and make their way 
up a private stair to the young ladies’ apartment; they were 
attended by a man dressed something like a priest, who bore a 
large box ; I instantly ran to relate what I had seen to my young 
master. I found him shaving. ‘ I will just finish what I am 
about,’ said he, ‘ and then wait upon these gentlemen.’ He 
finished what he was about with great deliberation, then taking 
a horsewhip, and bidding me follow him, he proceeded at once 
to the door of his sisters’ apartment : finding it fastened, he burst 
it open at once with his foot and entered, followed by myself. 
There we beheld the two unfortunate young ladies down on 
their knees before a large female doll, dressed up, as usual, in 
rags and tinsel ; the two priests were standing near, one on 
either side, with their hands uplifted, whilst the fellow who 
brought the trumpery stood a little way down the private stair, 
the door of which stood open ; without a moment’s hesitation, my 
young master rushed forward, gave the image a cut or two with 
his horsewhip, then flying at the priests, he gave them a sound 
flogging, kicked them down the private stair, and spurned the 


54 » 


LA VENGRO. 


[ 1825 - 


man, box and image after them ; then locking the door, he gave 
his sisters a fine sermon, in which he represented to them their 
folly in worshipping a silly wooden graven image, which, though it 
had eyes, could see not ; though it had ears, could hear not ; though 
it had hands, could not help itself ; and though it had feet, could 
not move about unless it were carried. Oh, it was a fine sermon 
that my young master preached, and sorry I am that the Father 
of the Fetish, old Mumbo, did not hear it. The elder sister 
looked ashamed, but the youngest, who was very weak, did 
nothing but wring her hands, weep and bewail the injury which 
had been done to the dear image. The young man, however, 
without paying much regard to either of them went to his father, 
with whom he had a long conversation, which terminated in the 
old governor giving orders for preparations to be made for the 
family’s leaving Rome and returning to England. I believe that 
the old governor was glad of his son’s arrival, and rejoiced at 
the idea of getting away from Italy, where he had been so 
plundered and imposed upon. The priests, however, made 
another attempt upon the poor young ladies. By the conniv- 
ance of the female servant who was in their interest, they 
found their way once more into their apartment, bringing with 
them the fetish image, whose body they partly stripped, ex- 
hibiting upon it certain sanguine marks which they had daubed 
upon it with red paint, but which they said were the result 
of the lashes which it had received from the horsewhip. The 
youngest girl believed all they said, and kissed and embraced 
the dear image ; but the eldest, whose eyes had been opened by 
her brother, to whom she was much attached, behaved with 
proper dignity; for, going to the door, she called the female 
servant who had a respect for me, and in her presence reproached 
the two deceivers for their various impudent cheats, and especially 
for this their last attempt at imposition ; adding, that if they did 
not forthwith withdraw and rid her sister and herself of their 
presence, she would send word by her maid to her brother, who 
would presently take effectual means to expel them. They took 
the hint and departed, and we saw no more of them. 

“ At the end of three days we departed from Rome, but the 
maid whom the priests had cajoled remained behind, and it is 
probable that the youngest of our ladies would have done the 
same thing if she could have had her own will, for she was 
continually raving about her image, and saying, she should wish 
to live with it in a convent ; but we watched the poor thing, and 
got her on board ship. Oh, glad was I to leave that fetish 
country, and old Mumbo behind me ! ” 


CHAPTER C 


“ We arrived in England, and went to our country seat, but 
the peace and tranquillity of the family had been marred, and 
I no longer found my place the pleasant one which it had formerly 
been ; there was nothing but gloom in the house, for the youngest 
daughter exhibited signs of lunacy, and was obliged to be kept 
under confinement. The next season I attended my master, his 
son and eldest daughter to London, as I had previously done. 
There I left them, for hearing that a young baronet, an acquaint- 
ance of the family, wanted a servant, I applied for the place, with 
the consent of my masters, both of whom gave me a strong re- 
commendation, and being approved of, I went to live with him. 

“ My new master was what is called a sporting character, very 
fond of the turf, upon which he was not very fortunate. He was 
frequently very much in want of money, and my wages were any- 
thing but regularly paid ; nevertheless, I liked him very much, 
for he treated me more like a friend than a domestic, continually 
consulting me as to his affairs. At length he was brought nearly 
to his last shifts, by backing the favourite at the Derby, which 
favourite turned out a regular brute, being found nowhere at the 
rush. Whereupon, he and I had a solemn consultation over 
fourteen glasses of brandy and water, and as many cigars — 
I mean, between us — as to what was to be done. He wished 
to start a coach, in which event he was to be driver and I guard. 
He was quite competent to drive a coach, being a first-rate whip, 
and I dare say I should have made a first-rate guard; but to 
start a coach requires money, and we neither of us believed 
that anybody would trust us with vehicles and horses, so that 
idea was laid aside. We then debated as to whether or not he 
should go into the Church ; but to go into the Church — at any 
rate to become a dean or bishop, which would have been our 
a j m — it is necessary for a man to possess some education ; and 
my master, although he had been at the best school in England, 
that is, the most expensive, and also at College, was almost totally 

( 549 ) 


550 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


illiterate, so we let the Church scheme follow that of the coach. 
At last, bethinking me that he was tolerably glib at the tongue, 
as most people are who are addicted to the turf, also a great 
master of slang, remembering also that he had a crabbed old 
uncle, who had some borough interest, I proposed that he should 
get into the House, promising in one fortnight to qualify him 
to make a figure in it, by certain lessons which I would give him. 
He consented ; and during the next fortnight I did little else than 
give him lessons in elocution, following to a tittle the method 
of the great professor, which I had picked up listening behind 
the door. At the end of that period, we paid a visit to his 
relation, an old gouty Tory, who, at first, received us very coolly. 
My master, however, by flattering a predilection of his for Billy 
Pitt, soon won his affections so much that he promised to bring 
him into Parliament, and in less than a month was as good as 
his word. My master, partly by his own qualifications, and partly 
by the assistance which he had derived, and still occasionally 
derived, from me, cut a wonderful figure in the House, and was 
speedily considered one of the most promising speakers ; he was 
always a good hand at promising. He is at present, I believe, a 
Cabinet minister. 

“ But as he got up in the world, he began to look down on 
me. I believe he was ashamed of the obligation under which he 
lay to me ; and at last, requiring no further hints as to oratory 
from a poor servant like me, he took an opportunity of quarrelling 
with me and discharging me. However, as he had still some 
grace, he recommended me to a gentleman with whom, since he 
had attached himself to politics, he had formed an acquaintance, 
the editor of a grand Tory Review. I lost caste terribly amongst 
the servants for entering the service of a person connected with 
a profession so mean as literature; and it was proposed at the 
Servants’ Club, in Park Lane, to eject me from that society. 
The proposition, however, was not carried into effect, and I was 
permitted to show myself among them, though few condescended 
to take much notice of me. My master was one of the best men 
n the world, but also one of the most sensitive. On his veracity 
being impugned by the editor of a newspaper, he called him out, 
and shot him through the arm. Though servants are seldom ad- 
mirers of their masters, I was a great admirer of mine, and eager to 
follow his example. The day after the encounter, on my veracity 

being impugned by the servant of Lord C in something 

I said in praise of my master, I determined to call him out, so 
I went into another room and wrote a challenge. But whom 


PERORATION. 


55i 


1825.] 


should I send it by ? Several servants to whom I applied 
refused to be the bearers of it; they said I had lost caste, and 
they could not think of going out with me. At length the servant 

of the Duke of B consented to take it ; but he made me 

to understand that, though he went out with me, he did so merely 

because he despised the Whiggish principles of Lord C ’s 

servant, and that if I thought he intended to associate with me, 

I should be mistaken. Politics, I must tell you, at that time 
ran as high amongst the servants as the gentlemen, the servants, 
however, being almost invariably opposed to the politics of their 
respective masters, though both parties agreed in one point, 
the scouting of everything low and literary, though I think, 
of the two, the liberal or reform party were the most inveterate. 
So he took my challenge, which was aqcepted ; we went out, 

Lord C ’s servant being seconded by a reformado footman 

from the Palace. We fired three times without effect ; but this 
affair lost me my place, my master on hearing it forthwith dis- 
charged me ; he was, as I have said before, very sensitive, and 
he said this duel of mine was a parody of his own. Being, 
however, one of the best men in the world, on his discharging 
me he made me a donation of twenty pounds. 

“And it was well that he made me this present, for without 
it I should have been penniless, having contracted rather expensive 
habits during the time that I lived with the young baronet. I 
now determined to visit my parents, whom I had not seen for 
years. I found them in good health, and, after staying with them 
for two months, I returned again in the direction of town, walking 
in order to see the country. On the second day of my journey, 
not being used to such fatigue, I fell ill at a great inn on the 
north road, and there I continued for some weeks till I recovered, 
but by that time my money was entirely spent. By living at the 
inn I had contracted an acquaintance with the master and the 
people, and become accustomed to inn life. As I thought that 
I might find some difficulty in procuring any desirable situation 
in London, owing to my late connection with literature, I deter- 
mined to remain where I was, provided my services would be 
accepted. I offered them to the master, who, finding I knew 
something of horses, engaged me as a postillion. I have remained 
there since. You have now heard my story. 

“Stay, you sha’n’t say that I told my tale without a per — 
peroration. What shall it be? Oh, I remember something 
which will serve for one. As I was driving my chaise some weeks 
ago, on my return from L } I saw standing at the gate of 


552 


LA VENGRO. 


[1825. 


an avenue, which led up to an old mansion, a figure which I 
thought I recognised. I looked at it attentively, and the figure, 
as I passed, looked at me ; whether it remembered me I do not 
know, but I recognised the face it showed me full well. 

“ If it was not the identical face of the red-haired priest whom 
I had seen at Rome, may I catch cold ! 

“ Young gentleman, I will now take a spell on your blanket — 
young lady, good-night.” 


[End of Vol. III., 1851.] 


THE EDITOR’S POSTSCRIPT. 


Lavefigro and The Romany Rye (properly Romano Rai) were 
terms applied to George Borrow in his youth by the Norfolk 
Gypsy, Ambrose Smith, better known in these volumes as Jasper 
Petulengro. The names signify respectively “Philologist” and 
“ the Gypsy Gentleman The two works thus entitled constitute 
a more or less exact autobiography of the writer of them, from the 
date of his birth to the end of August, 1825. The author himself 
confesses in his Preface that “ the time embraces nearly the first 
quarter of the present century 

Lavengro was written at Oulton, in Suffolk, slowly and at 
intervals, between the years 1842 and 1851. The MSS. exist 
in three varieties: 1. The primitive draft of a portion, found 
scattered through sundry notebooks and on isolated scraps of 
paper, as described in the letter to Dawson Turner {Life, i., p. 394). 
2. The definitive autograph text in one thick quarto volume. 3. 
The transcript for the printers, made by Mrs. Borrow, in one 
large folio volume, interlarded with the author’s additions and 
corrections. 

The text of the present edition reproduces with fidelity the 
first issue of 1851. Occasionally a verbal alteration, introduced 
by the author himself into his second edition of 1872, has been 
adopted in this, whenever it seemed to improve the reading. In 
general, however, that reprint was in many respects a defective 
one. Not only words, but even whole sentences, which had 
escaped the printers, remained undetected by the editor, and, as 
a consequence, were lost to later impressions, based, as they all 
have been, on that issue. We should have preferred to alter, 
quietly and without remark, certain errors in the text, as we 
did in the documents published in the Life ; but save in a single 
instance, we have left such inaccuracies intact, reserving all cor- 
rections for the place where we might be supposed to exercise a 
free hand. 1 

1 The one sole emendation consists in substituting the masc. cheval for the 
fem. jument , on p. 314. Le jument est beau was a solecism that could not longer 
be tolerated. 

(553) 


554 


EDITOR'S POSTSCRIPT. 


The insertion, with brackets of course, of the'promised inedited 
episodes, caused in two cases some embarrassment. In removing 
them from the final form of his MS., Mr. Borrow closed up the 
gap with a few fitting lines which concealed the withdrawal. 
These words had to be suppressed on the restoration of the 
passages. 

The insertions will be met with as follows : — 

The Poet Parkinson, pp. 119-25. 

The Wake of Freya, pp. 128-33. 

Cromwell’s Statue and the Dairyman' s Daughter , pp. 196-98. 

Portobello or the Irish Patriot, pp. 231-39. 

Thomas d’l£terville, in the Notes , pp. 558-59. 

Thus we have made a full statement as regards the text of the 
present reprint. Any one who takes up this edition will discover 
no visible name, or preface, or introduction, save only those of 
George Borrow, from the title to the close. The book is, there- 
fore, “all Borrow,” and we have sought to render the helping 
hand as inconspicuous as possible. Should, however, the pre- 
judiced stumble at the Notes , we can say in the language of the 
fairy smith of Loughmore: is agad an t-leigheas , you have the 
remedy in your own power. 

Speaking of the Notes , they have been drawn up on the un- 
impeachable testimony of contemporaneous record. Especially 
have we sought the works which Mr. Borrow was accustomed to 
read in his younger days, and at times with curious results. A 
list of these is given at the close of The Romany Rye , and is 
referred to in these notes as “Bibliography” for the sake of 
concision. What is not here explained can be easily looked up 
in our Life, Writings , and Correspondence of George Borrow , 
London, 1899, which of itself furnishes a sufficient and unalterable 
exhibition of the facts concerning the man and his work. 

W. I. Knapp. 

High St., Oxford, 

November , 1899. 


NOTES TO LA VENGRO , 


WITH 

CORRECTIONS, IDENTIFICATIONS AND TRANSLATIONS. 


Page i. East D : East Dereham, a small town in Norfolk, 

16 miles W. of Norwich, and 102 N.E. of London. Here Capt. Thomas 
Borrow, the father of George, was often stationed from 1792 to 1812. — 1. 
East Anglia : This Anglo-Saxon kingdom comprised the present counties 
of Norfolk, Suffolk and Cambridge. — 1. Tredinnock, read Trethinnick : 
Parish of St. Cleer, Cornwall. — 2. Big Ben : Benjamin Brain or Bryan 
was born in 1753. Some of his most severe “ battles ” were fought between 
1780 and 1790 — one on the 30th of August in the latter year, with Hooper 
at Newbury, Berks. A few days after this exploit, he picked a quarrel with 
Sergeant Borrow of the Coldstream Guards, which resulted in the Hyde Park 
encounter. Some four months later, i.e., 17th January, 1791, the decisive 
fight for the championship came off between Brain and Johnson. It was 
an appalling spectacle, and struck dumb with horror, even in that day, the 
witnesses to the dreadful conflict. Big Ben was the victor, and remained 
champion of England from that date until his death three years (not “four 
months ”) later — 8th April, 1794. “ Lavengro,” carried away by the enthu- 

siasm of early reminiscence, allowed himself to declare that his father read 
the Bible to Brain in his latter moments. But in 1794 Thomas Borrow was 
busy recruiting soldiers in Norfolk, one hundred miles from the scene of the 
dying pugilist. However, the error was probably one of date merely, and 
during the year 1791 Thomas doubtless read the Bible to him in London, 
since we learn from Pierce Egan that “ Ben derived great consolation from 
hearing the Bible read, and generally solicited those of his acquaintance 
who called upon him to read a chapter to him ’V — 3. Captain : The 
West Norfolk Militia was raised in 1759 by the third Earl of Orford. He 
died in December, 1791, when the regiment was reorganised (not “raised”) 
under the new Colonel, the Hon. Horatio Walpole, subsequently the sixth 
Earl of Orford. Thus in February, 1792, Thomas was transferred from the 
Guards to be Sergeant-major in the W.N.M., and stationed at East Dereham. 
He married the following year, became Quarter-master (with the rank of 
Ensign) in 1795, and Adjutant (Lieutenant) in February, 1798. This his 
final promotion doubtless gave him the honorary rank of Captain, since in 
the Monthly Army List for 1804 we read : “ Adjutant, Thomas Borrow, Capt.". 
But a letter before me dated 18th April, 1799, from his Major, is officially 
addressed to him as “Lieut. Borrow, Adjutant,” etc., etc. — 3. Petrement: 
Our author knew very well that his mother’s maiden name was Ann Pcr- 
frcment, pronounced and written Parfrement at the present day by those of 
the family we have met. The correct spelling is found on the tombstone 

1 Boxiana , ii., 497. 

(555) 


556 


NOTES. 


of her sister, Sarah, at Dereham (1817), and on that of her brother, Samuel, 
at Salthouse near Holt (1864). — 3. Castle of De Burgh : A fanciful 
Borrovian epithet applied to Norwich Castle. Nor did the exiles build the 
Church of St. Mary-the-Less, in Queen Street, Norwich ; it was a distinct 
parish church long before Elizabeth’s reign, and in her time the parish was 
consolidated with the neighbouring one of St. George’s, Tombland, while 
the church became municipal property. But the French exiles of the Edict 
of 1685 did worship there, even as did the Dutch refugees from Alva’s 
persecution a century before (1565-70). — 4. Middle Age: Borrow’s father 
was thirty-four, and his mother twenty-one, at the date of their marriage. 
John was born seven years after the marriage, and George ten. The 
mother was, then, thirty-one at George’s birth. — 4. Bishop Hopkins: Ser- 
mons. — 4. Angola: More correctly A ngora. — 5. Foreign grave: Lieut. John 
Thomas Borrow died at Guanajuato, Mexico, 22nd November, 1833. 

Pages 12-13. 11 Snorro ” Sturleson : Poet and historian of Iceland (1178- 
1241). Harald (not Harold) III., called “ Haardraade ”. Battle of Stamford 
Bridge, a.d. 1066, same year as Norman Conquest. See Mallet’s Northern 
Antiquities, pp. 168-71 and 194 ; Snorro’s Heimskringla, ii., p. 164, and his 
Chronica, 1633, p. 381, for the quotation ; also Bibliog. at end of Romany 
Rye . — 13. Winchester: Rather Winchelsca, according to the Regimental 
Records. — 14. A gallant frigate : A reminiscence of Norman Cross gossip 
in 1810-11. “ Ninety -eight French prisoners, the crew of a large French 

privateer of eighteen guns called the Contre-Amiral Magon, and commanded 
by the notorious Blackman, were captured 16th October, 1804, by Capt. 
Hancock of the Cruiser sloop, and brought into Yarmouth. They marched 
into Norwich, 26th November, and the next morning proceeded under guard 
on their way to Norman Cross barracks ” — Norwich Papers, 1804. — 15. Lady 
Bountiful: Dame Eleanor Fenn (1743-1813). — 15. Bard: William Cowper 
(1731-1800). — 16. Some Saint: Withburga, daughter of Anna, king of the 
East Angles, was the “ saint ” and the “daughter” at the same time. — 19. 
Hunchbacked rhymer : Alexander Pope. — 20. Properties of God, read 
attributes. — 20. Rector: The Rev. F. J. H. Wollaston. — 20. Philoh : James 
Philo (1745-1829). — 21. Tolerism, read toleration . — 24. Mere: Whittlesea 
Mere, long since drained. — 31. Bengui : See the vocabulary at the end for all 
Gypsy words in this volume. — 34. Jasper: The change from Ambrose to Jasper 
was made in pencil in Mrs. Borrow’s transcript at the last moment in 1849, 
before handing it to the printers. — 38. Three years : Included in the subse- 
quent narrative, not excluded from it as his Norwich school days (1814-15, 
1816-18) were. They extend from July, 1811, to April, 1813 — from Norman 
Cross to Edinburgh. The chronology, according to the Regimental Records, 
was as follows : George was at East Dereham from 22nd July to 18th 
November, 1811, at J. S. Buck’s (“Dr. B.'s ”) school; 30th November, 1811, 
to February, 1812, at Colchester; 28th February to 5th March, 1812, at 
Harwich ; 15th to 19th March, at Leicester; 21st to 30th March, at Melton 
Mowbray ; 2nd to 25th April, at Leicester again ; 28th April to 3rd May, at 
Tamworth ( Lavengro , pp. 367-68); 8th to 26th May, at Macclesfield; 28th 
May to 2nd August, at Stockport ; 3rd to 23rd August, at Ashton ; 24th 
August to 15th December, at Huddersfield {W. W., p. 64, and Lavengro, 
pp. 39-41) ; 16th December, 1812, to 19th March, 1813, at Sheffield ; 20th and 
2 1st March, 1813, at Leeds; 22nd March, at Wetherby ; 23rd March, 
Boroughbridge ; 24th March, Allerton ; 25th March, Darlington ; 26th March, 
Durham (W. W., pp. 258-59) ; 27th and 28th March, Newcastle ; 29th March, 
Morpeth ; 30th March, Alnwick ; 3rd and 4th April, at Berwick-upon-Tweed ; 
6th April, 1813, Edinburgh Castle. — 38. Lilly : See Bibliog. 


NOTES . 


557 


Page 4 2. Bank of a river : The Tweed. The scene here described 
occurred on a Sunday, 4th April, 1813, near Berwick, where they “ arrived 
the preceding night ” (p. 44). — 42. Elvir Hill : See Borrow’s Romantic 
Ballads , Norwich, 1826, pp. 111-14. This piece entitled “Elvir Hill,” one 
of the old Danish ballads of Vedel’s collection, 1591, represents the dangers 
attending a youth who “rested” his “head upon Elvir Hill’s side” where 
he was so charmed in his sleep by a brace of seductive fairies, that 

“ If my good luck had not managed it so 
That the cock crew out then in the distance, 

I should have been murder’d by them on the Hill, 

Without power to offer resistance. 

“ ’Tis therefore I counsel each young Danish swain 
Who may ride in the forest so dreary, 

Ne’er to lay down upon lone Elvir Hill 
Though he chance to be ever so weary.” 

43. Skaldaglam : The barditus of Tacitus, or the “ din ” made by the Norse 
“bards” (skalds) on shields and with shouts as they rushed into battle. It 
is not in Molbech, but Snorro frequently uses it in his Chronica , 1633. — 43. 
Kalevala : Title of the great Finnish epic, of which the hero is Woinomoinen. 
— 43. Polak: Polander or Pole. — 43. Magyar (pron. Madjr) : Hungarian. — 
43. Batuscha: An erratum of the author for his Batuschca (161) — better 
Batyushca, “ father Tsar ” — but generally applied by Borrow to his friend the 
Pope. — 45 to 55 : See Life , i., pp. 39-43. — 46. Bui hin Digri : The Jomsburg 
Viking, a.d. 994. See Borrow’s Romantic Ballads , p. 136, and Once A 
Week, ix., p. 686. The account is given in Snorro’s Chronica , 1633, p. 136 
(see Bibliog.), but a more accessible version of it is found in Mallet’s 
Northern Antiquities (Bohn’s ed.), pp. 144-45. — 46. Horunga Vog, read 
Hjorunga Vagr in Icelandic, or Vaag in Danish. In Romany Rye (p. 359) 
it is Englished as “ Horinger Bay”. — 50. Hickathrift: A Norfolk worthy 
of the eleventh century, whose prodigious exploits with the axle of his cart 
as an offensive weapon, and the wheel as a shield, are handed down in the 
chap books of the last three centuries. See p. 63 ; also Bibliog. at the end 
of Romany Rye. — 51. Elzigood : William E., of Heigham, Norwich, enlisted 
October, 1789, became Drum-major in the regiment, 22nd October, 1802 ; 
called facetiously or maliciously Else-than-gude on p. 54. — 55. O’Hanlon: 
Redmond O’Hanlon (d. 1681), a proprietor of Ulster, dispossessed under the 
Cromwellian settlement, and afterwards leader of a band of outlaws. — 56. 
Disbanded: The W.N.M. regiment left Edinburgh in July, 1814, and was 
disembodied* at Norwich, 19th July. It was again called out, 10th July, 
1815, and sent to Ireland. John Borrow was appointed Ensign, 29th May, 
1815, and Lieutenant, 13th December of the same year. The regiment 
sailed from Harwich (“ port in Essex ”) 31st August, reaching Cork harbour 
(“ the cove ”) about 9th September, 1815. 63. Wight Wallace (story book 
of): See Bibliog. 

Page 63. Shorsha: The Irish for George , properly written Seors, but 
the author usually wrote his Irish by sound. — 64. Saggart, read sagart : 
(Lat. sacerdos ), a priest. — 64. Finn-ma-Coul : In Irish Fionn-mac-Cumhail, 
the father of Ossian. — 64. Brian Boroo : In Irish, Brian Boroimhe, a king of 
Ireland (926-1014).— 65. Saggarting : Studying with reference to the priest- 
hood.— 65. Mavourneen : Properly mo mhuirnin , my darling.— 65. Hanam 


558 


NOTES. 


mon Dioul : Wrongly given for M'anam o'n Diabhal [God preserve] my soul 
from the devil ! See Romany Rye , p. 286, where it is quite correct — from sound. 
— 66. Christmas over: 1816. Regiment quartered at Templemore. John, 
now a lieutenant (not “ensign ”), is sent with a detachment to Loughmore, 
three miles away. Sergeant Bagg, promoted to that rank, 10th July, 1815, 
accompanies him. — 66. Mountain : Called locally, “ Devil’s Bit'' and not 
Devil’s Hill or Mt., as in the text.— 68. Fine old language (add : which) : 

“ A labhair Padric ' nninse Fail na Riogh 
'Sanfaighe caomhsin Colum naomhtha ’ n I." 

(which) “ Patrick spoke in Innisfail to heathen chiefs of old, 

And Columb, the mild prophet saint, spoke in his island-hold.” 

So Borrow gives the Irish and his version in Romantic Ballads , p. viii. The Erse 
lines were taken from Lhuyd’s Archceologia Britannica , Oxford, 1707, sign. d. 
—69. The Castle : Loughmore Castle. — 71. Figure of a man : Jerry Grant, 
the Irish outlaw. See the Newgate Calendars subsequent to 1840 — Pelham. 
Griffith, etc. — 72 and 83. “ Sas ” and “ Sassanach,” of course mean English- 
man or English (Saxon). — 74. Clergyman of the parish : The Rev. Patrick 
Kennedy, vicar of Loughmore. His name is also on the list of subscribers 
to the Romantic Ballads , Norwich, 1826, as J . Kennedy, by mistake. — 76. 
Swanton Morley: A village near East Dereham. — 82. Arrigodyuit (Irish), 
read airgiod dhuit ; Have you any money ? — 82 Tabhair chugam (pron. 
tower khoogam) : Give (it) to me.— 83. Is agam an’t leigeas (read an t- 
- leigheas ): I have the remedy. — 83. Another word: deaghbhlasda : See 
Romany Rye , p. 266, and Notes and Queries , 5th May, 1855, p. 339, article 
by George Metivier. 

Page 84. Old city : Norwich. The regiment having returned to 
head-quarters, nth May, 1816, was mustered out 17th June. The author 
describes the city from the “ruined wall” of the old Priory on the hill to 
the east. — 85. The Norman Bridge: is Bishop’s Bridge.— 85. Sword 
of Cordova, in Guild Hall, is a mistake for the sword of the Spanish 
General Don Xavier Winthuysen. — 90. Vone banished priest : Rev. 
Thomas d’Eterville. The MS. gives the following inedited account of 
D’literville. I omit the oft-recurring expletive sacri (accursed) : — 

[Myself. Were you not yourself forced to flee from your country ? 

D'^terville. That’s very true. ... I became one vagabond — nothing 
better, I assure you, my dear ; had you seen me, you would have said so. 
I arrive at Douvres ; no welcome. I walk to Canterbury and knock at the 
door of one auberge. The landlord opens. “ What do you here ? ” he says ; 
“ who are you ? ” “ Vone exiled priest,” I reply. “ Get you gone, sirrah ! ” 

he says ; “ we have beggars enough of our own,” and he slams the door in 
my face. Ma foi , il faisoit bien , for my toe was sticking through my shoe. 

Myself. But you are no longer a vagabond, and your toe does not stick 
through your shoe now. 

D'l&terville. No, thank God, the times are changed. I walked and 
walked, till I came here, where I became one philologue and taught tongues 
— French and Italian. I found good friends here, those of my religion. 
“ He very good man,” they say ; “ one banished priest ; we must help him.” 
I am no longer a vagabond — ride a good horse when I go to visit pupils in 
the country — stop at auberge — landlord comes to the door : “ What do you 
please to want, sir ? ” “ Only to bait my horse, that is all.” Eh bien , land- 

lord very polite ; he not call me vagabond ; I carry pistols in my pocket. 

Myself. I know you do ; I have often seen them. But why do you carry 
pistols? 


NOTES. 


559 


D'Eterville. I ride along the road from the distant village. I have been 
to visit my pupil whom I instruct in philology. My pupil has paid me my 
bill, and I carry in my purse the fruits of my philology. I come to one dark 
spot. Suddenly my bridle is seized, and one tall robber stands at my horse’s 
head with a very clumsy club in his hand. “ Stand, rascal,” says he ; “ your 
life or your purse!” “Very good, sir,” I respond; “there you have it.” 
So I put my hand, not into my pocket, but into my holster ; I draw out, 
not my purse, but my weapon, and — bang! I shoot the English robber 
through the head. 

Myself. It is a bad thing to shed blood; I should be loth to shoot a 
robber to save a purse. 

D'Eterville. Que tu es bete ! mon ami. Am I to be robbed of the fruits 
of my philology, made in foreign land, by one English robber ? Shall I 
become once more one vagabond as of old ? one exiled priest turned from 
people’s doors, my shoe broken, toe sticking through it, like that bad poet 
who put the Pope in hell ? Bah, bah ! 

By degrees D’Eterville acquired a considerable fortune for one in his 
station. Some people go so far as to say that it was principally made by 
an extensive contraband trade in which he was engaged. Be this as it may, 
some twenty years from the time of which I am speaking, he departed this 
life, and shortly before his death his fellow-religionists, who knew him to 
be wealthy, persuaded him to make a will, by which he bequeathed all his 
property to certain popish establishments in England. In his last hours, 
however, he repented, destroyed his first will, and made another, in which 
he left all he had to certain of his relations in his native country ; — “ for,” 
said he, “they think me one fool, but I will show them that they are mis- 
taken. I came to this land one banished priest, where I made one small 
fortune; and now I am dying, to whom should I leave the fruits of my 
philology but to my blood-relations ? In God’s name, let me sign. Mon- 
sieur Boileau left the fruits of his verses to his niece ; eh bieti, I will bequeatn 
the fruits of my philology to my niece and nephew. There, there ! thanks 
be to God, it is done ! They take me for a fool ; I am no fool. Leave to 
the Pope the fruits of my philology ! Bah, bah ! I do no such thing. I 
do like Monsieur Boileau.”] 

Page 93. Earl’s Home : Earlham Hall, the residence of Joseph 
John Gurney (1788-1847), the Norwich banker and famous Quaker. The 
“ tall figure ” mentioned on the next page was Mr. Gurney, then twenty- 
eight years of age. — 95. Only read Greek : This is a mistake. Mr. Gurnty 
was an early student of Italian. See Braithwaite’s Life , i., pp. 25 and 49. 
— Zohar : Very correct. Braithwaite, i., p. 37. — Abarbenel, read Abarbane! 
or Abrabanel : A Spanish Jew driven from Spain in 1492. See p. 282. — 97. 
Castle Hill : Norwich. — 97. Fair of horses : Tombland Fair, held on 
Maundy Thursday every year. — 100. Heath: Mousehold Heath, near Nor- 
wich. See also pp. 106, 161, etc. — 112. “ Gemiti, sospiri ed alti guai ” 
(compare Dante, Inf, iii., 8 : “ Quivi sospiri, pianti, e alti guai ”) : Groans, 
sighs, and deep lamentations. — 1 14. Ab Gwilym : See Bibliog. at the end of 
Romany Rye. — 114. Cowydd : A species of Welsh poetry. — 114. Eos (W.) : 
Nightingale. — 114. Narrow Court: Tuck’s Court, St. Giles, Norwich.— 115. 
Old master : William Simpson of the law firm of Simpson & Rackham, 
Norwich. — 115. Bon jour: read Bonjour . . .! bien des choses de ma part a 
Monsieur Peyrecourt or Pierrecourt" . “Expressions” in this sense (kind 
regards) is the Spanish expresiones, disguised as French. — 118. Bwa Bach : 
The “little hunchback”. Seep. 114.— 119 to 125. Parkinson the poet : 


560 


NOTES. 


This character, who appears for the first time among the inedited episodes of 
Lavengro, was a real one, although his true name (Parkerson) is given 
somewhat veiled, as usual with Mr. Borrow. He seems to have been the 
poet-laureate of farmers, corn-merchants, drovers and publicans, selling his 
muse to the highest bidder, at first in printed sheets of eight pages, and 
subsequently gathered into pamphlets of thirty or more pages which he 
offered for one or two shillings each. They were printed by R. Walker, 
“ near the Duke’s Palace, Norwich,” and sold by “ Lane and Walker, St. 
Andrew’s ”. They are without date, but cannot range far from 1818. Here 
are some specimens of his style : “ The Norwich Corn Mart. By J. 
Parkerson, Junior.” 

At one o'clock the busy scene begin, 

Quick to the hall they all are posting in ; 

The cautious merchant takes his stand, 

T he farmer shows the produce of his land, 

etc., for sixty-six lines. “ On Mr. L . . . taking leave of his wife and 
children, who was sentenced to transportation for fourteen years ” (!): — 

Hannah, farewell, I'm bound to go, 

To taste the bitter draught of woe , 

134 lines. “ A Description of the Pine-Apple at Trowse ” : — 

Both Beauty and Art have exerted their skill, 

You will find on a spot near the brow of a hill ; 

The hill is near Norwich and call'd Bracondale, 

I stept into Vince's myself to regale, 

etc., four pages of that. — 124. Mr. C. : Thomas William Coke, Esq., of 
Holkham, Earl of Leicester in 1837, and died in 1842. 

Pages 128-133. The Wake of Freya: This incident must have 
occurred to Mrs. Borrow at her home, Dumpling Green, East Dereham, on 
a Friday night, 5th December, 1783, when she was twelve (not “ ten ”) years 
old. Her eldest sister, Elizabeth, would be in her seventeenth year. 
Friday was then, as now, market day at Dereham. The place was the 
Blyth farm about one and a half miles (not “three") from “pretty D ”, 
The superstition referred to in this episode is, or was, a very common one 
in Norfolk, and even other countries. See the Norfolk Chronicle for 14th 
May, 1791 ; Glyde’s Norfolk Garland, pp. 13-14, and George Borrow in the 
Quarterly Review for January, 1861, p. 62. — 130. Freya: The Venus 
of the North was the sister of Frey, according to Mallet (p. 94), and the 
original sources. — 136. To London: Crome (John’s teacher) died at 
Norwich, 22nd April, 1821 ; but John could not leave until after the 
Regimental Training, which closed that year on 26th June; hence his 
departure may be set down for the last of June, 1821. — 136. Rafael: 

Note spelling here (also pp. 223 and 225) and Raphael on p. 352. 

137. Corregio, read Correggio.— 139. Murray and Latroon, the Scotch 
outlaw and the “English Rogue”. See Bibliog. at the end of Romany 
Rye. — 142. “ Draoitheac,” magic, read draoidheachd (Ir.). — 144. Muggle- 
tonians : Evidently a Borrovian slip here. See Notes and Queries for 3rd 
April, 1852, p. 320. — 145. Vedel : Anders Sorensen Vedel, first collector of 
the Kiampeviser , or Heroic Ballads of the Danes, Copenh. , 1591. — 146. 
Chapter xxiii. : Interview between William Taylor (21 King Street, Norwich) 


NOTES. 


56i 


and George Borrow.— 151. Orra Ungarswayne: “Orm the youthful 
Swain,” Romantic Ballads , p. 86. But see the Danish ballad “Birting” 
in Borrow’s Targum, St. Petersb., 1835, pp. 59-61, commencing: — 

“ It was late at evening tide, 

Sinks the day-star in the wave, 

When alone Orm Ungarswayne 
Rode to seek his father’s grave 

— 151* Swayne Vonved : See this piece in Romantic Ballads , pp. 61-81. — 
151. Mousha, read Muga , in Arabic or Moshe in Hebrew ; both represent our 
Moses . But the Jew’s name was Levi , according to the MS. — 153. The 
Fight: Between Painter and Oliver, near North Walsham, 17th July, 1820. 
This chapter xxiv. relates the author’s call on Mr. Petre of Westwick House, 
which must have been after 20th May, when it was decided that the “ battle ” 
should take place within twenty miles of Norwich. — 155. Parr : There 
were two Parrs, one, Thomas, called “ English ” or “ Old ” Parr (1483-1635) 
who lived 152 years, and Samuel, called the “ Greek ” Parr (1747-1825,) who 
had been Head Master of the Norwich Grammar School from 1778 to 1785. 
This Dr. Samuel Parr was the one referred to by Mr. Petre. — 155. Whiter : 
Rev. Walter Whiter, author of the Commentary on Shakespeare , Lond. 
1794, and Etymologicum Magnum , Camb., 1800, 4to ; enlarged ed., Camb., 
1822-25, 3 v ®ls. 4 t0 * — 156. Game Chicken : Henry Pierce, nicknamed Game 
Chicken, beat Gulley, 8th October, 1805 (Egan’s Boxiana, i., p. 145). — 156. 
Sporting Gentlemen : John Thurtell and Edward Painter (“ Ned Flatnose ”). 
— 158. Harmanbeck : Slang for constable — word taken from the English 
Rogue. — 161. Batuschca (read Bdtyooshca): See p. 43. — 161. Priber- 
jensky, read Preobrazhenski : Crack regiment of the Russian Imperial 
Guard, so called from the barracks situated near the Church of the Trans- 
figuration ( Prtobrazhenie ). 

Page 166. The Fight of 1820, chapter xxvi. We will here give a 
condensed portion of a chapter which we suppressed from the Life. 

On the 20th of May, 1820, an eager crowd might have been seen pressing 
up to a card displayed in the Castle Tavern, Norwich. The card was signed 
T. C. and T. Belcher ; but every one knew that the initials stood for the 
Champion of England, Thomas Cribb. The purport of the notice was that 
Edward Painter of Norwich was to fight Thomas Oliver of London for a 
purse of 100 guineas, on Monday, the 17th of July, in a field within twenty 
miles of the city. 

A few days after this announcement, George Borrow was charged by his 
principals to convey a sum of money to a country gentleman by the name 
of John Berney Petre, Esq., J.P., residing at Westwick House, some thirteen 
and a half miles distant on the North Walsham road. The gentleman was 
just settling the transfer of his inheritance, his father having died eight 
months before. Borrow walked the entire distance, and while he tarried 
with the magistrate, the interview tock place between him and Thurtell who 
desired to secure a field for the fight. Mr. Petre could not accommodate 
them, and they drove on to North Walsham. There they found the “ pightle ” 
which suited them in the vicinity of that town, on the road leading to Hap- 
pisburgh (Hazebro). 

Norwich began to fill on Saturday, the 15th of July, as the stage-coaches 
rolled in by the London (now Ipswich) and Newmarket roads. The Inn 

36 


562 


NOTES. 


attached to the Bowling Green on Chapel-Field, then kept by the famous 
one-legged ex-coachman Dan Gurney (p. 167), was the favourite resort of 
the “ great men ” of the day. Belcher, not old Belcher of 1791, but the 
“ Teucer ” Belcher, and Cribb, the champion of England, slept at the Castle 
Tavern, which like Janus had two faces — backed on the Meadows and 
fronted on White-Lion. The Norfolk in St. Giles and the Angel on the 
“ Walk,” housed other varieties of the sporting world. 

At an early hour on Monday, the 17th, the roads were alive with 
pedestrians, equestrians, Jews, Gentiles and Gypsies, in coaches, barouches 
and vehicles of every sort. From Norwich they streamed down Tombland 
into Magdalen street and road, out on the Coltishall highway, and thence — 
sixteen and one half miles in all — to North Walsham and the field. One 
ancient MacGowan (the Scotch for Petulengro) stood on Coltishall bridge 
and counted 2050 carriages as they swept past. More than 25,000 men and 
thieves gathered in concentric circles about the stand. 

I do not propose to attempt the description of this celebrated pugna or 
“ battle with the fists ”. Those who crave such diversions will find this one 
portrayed fittingly in the newspapers of the time. The closing passage of 
one of them has always seemed to me to be a masterpiece of grim brutality : 
“ Oliver’s nob was exchequered, and he fell by heavy right-handed blows on 
his ears and temple. When on his second’s knee, his head dangled about 
like a poppy after a shower.” 

A second fight, this time between Sampson, called the “ Birmingham 
boy,” and Martin the “ baker,” lost much of its interest by reason of the 
storm described in Lavengro. “ During the contest,” says the Norfolk 
Chronicle , “a most tremendous black cloud informed the spectators that 
a rare sousing was in preparation for them.” And the Mercury states that 
“ the heavy rain drenched the field, and most betook themselves to a retreat, 
but the rats were all drinkled ”. Thus the “ cloud ” was no fiction, by 
which the Gypsy foretold the dreadful fate awaiting John Thurtell before 
Hertford gaol, 9th January, 1824. Ned Painter never fought again. He 
was landlord of the White Hart Inn from 1823 to 1835. The present 
proprietor still shows his portrait there, with the above fact duly inscribed 
on the back of the frame. 

Page 168. Public: The Castle Tavern, Holborn, kept by Tom 
Belcher — the “ Daffy Club ”. — 169. “ Here’s a health to old honest John 
Bull : ” The verses were taken from a rare old volume entitled : The Norwich 
Minstrel , p. 30. (See Bibliog .) : — 

“HONEST JOHN BULL.” 

“ Here’s a health to ‘ Old honest John Bull ’ ; 

When he’s gone we shan’t find such another ; 

With hearts and with glasses brim full, 

We’ll drink to ‘ Britannia, his mother ’ ; 

For she gave him a good education, 

Bade him keep to his God and his King, 

Be loyal and true to the nation, 

And then to get merry and sing. 

“ For John is a good-natured fellow, 

Industrious, honest and brave ; 

Not afraid of his betters when mellow, 

For betters he knows he must have. 


NOTES. 


5 63 


There must be fine lords and fine ladies* 

There must be some little, some great ; 

Their wealth the support of our trade is, 

Our trade the support of the State. 

“ Some were born for the court and the city, 

And some for the village and cot ; 

For it would be a dolorous ditty, 

If we were born ‘ equal in lot 0 

If our ships had no pilots to steer, 

What would come of poor Jack on the shrouds ? 

Or our troops no commanders to fear, 

They would soon be arm’d robbers in crowds. 

“ The plough and the loom would stand still, 

If we were made gentlefolks all ; 

If clodhoppers — who then would fill 
The parliament, pulpit or hall ? 

‘ Rights of Man ’ makes a very fine sound, 

‘ Equal riches ’ a plausible tale ; 

Whose labourers would then till the ground ? 

All would drink, but who’d brew the ale ? 

“Half naked and starv’d, in the streets 
We should wander about, sans culottes ; 

Would Liberty find us in meats, 

Or Equality lengthen our coats ? 

That knaves are for levelling, don’t wonder, 

We may easily guess at their views ; 

Pray, who’d gain the most by the plunder ? 

Why, they that have nothing to lose. 

“ Then away with this nonsense and stuff, 

Full of treason, confusion and blood ; 

Every Briton has freedom enough 
To be happy as long as he’s good. 

To be rul’d by a glorious king, 

To be govern’d by jury and laws ; 

Then let us be happy and sing, 

‘ This, this, is true Liberty’s cause’.” 

Page 174. Haik, read Hciik : Armenian. — 178. Conqueror of Tippoo 
Sahib: General Harris (1791). — 181. March : The exact date was dis- 
covered by me in private letters in Norwich. See Life , i. , p. gi. George 
left Norwich on the evening of 1st April, 1824, and consequently reached 
London early on the morning of 2nd April. — 182. Lodging : No. 16 Mill- 
man Street, Bedford Row. — 185. The publisher : Sir Richard Phillips. — 
185. Mr. so-and-so : Taylor of Norwich. — 186. The Magazine: 
The Monthly Magazine; or , British Register. — 187. The Oxford Re- 
view : The Universal Review ; or, Chronicle of the Literature of all 
Nations. No. 1, March, 1824, to No. 6, January, 1825. See also pp. 190, 
203 and ff. — 191. Red Julius, called elsewhere by Borrow Iolo-Goch : A 
Welsh bard of the fifteenth century. — 193. Caesar’s Castle : The Tower 
of London. — 194 and 423. Blessed Mary Flanders : Defoe’s Moll 
Flanders. See Bibliog. at the end of Romany Rye. — 197. Booksellers’ 


564 


notes. 


Shop: The shop was a depository of the Religious Tract Society, the 
publishers of Legh Richmond’s Annals of the Poor , of which the first section 
was the Dairyman's Daughter (pp. 101). — 203. Newly married : Richard, 
Jr., m. Feb., 1823. — 204. “ Newgate Lives" : The true title was : Celebrated 
Trials , and Remarkable Cases of Criminal Jurisprudence , from the earliest 
records to the year 1825, Lond., 1825 (February), 6 vols. 8vo. — 205. Trans- 
lator of “ Faustus ” : Faust , a Drama by Goethe , and Schiller's Song of the 
Bell; translated , fry Lord Francis Leveson Gower, Lond., J. Murray, 1823, 
8vo ; 2nd ed., enlarged, ibid., 1825, 2 vols. 8vo. — 208. Translator of 
Quintilian: I doubt whether this was John Carey, LL.D. (1756-1826), who 
published an edition of Quintilian, 1822, but no translation. My information 
is positive that it was Wm. Gifford, translator of Juvenal, 1802, 3rd ed. 1817. 
— 215. Oxford : This constant satirising of the great English university in 
connection with the publisher’s theory, doubtless grew out of a series of 
articles printed in the Magazine during the years ’23 and ’24, and which 
may be summarised by this notice in vol. lvi., p. 349: “In a few days 
will appear a series of Dialogues between an Oxford Tutor and a Disciple 
of the new Commonsense Philosophy ; in which the mechanical principles 
of matter and motion will be accurately contrasted with the theories of 
occult powers which are at present cherished by the Universities and 
Royal Associations throughout Europe ”. — 220. Churchyard : St. Giles 
churchyard where Capt. Borrow was buried on the 4th of March 
previous. — 220. A New Mayor: Inexact. Robert Hawkes was mayor of 
Norwich in 1822. Therefore he was now £*-mayor — 220. Man with a 
Hump : Thomas Osborn Springfield, was not a watchmaker so far as is 
known in Norwich, but “ carried on the wholesale silk business, having almost 
a monopoly of the market ” (Bayne’s Norwich, p. 588). — 221. Painter of the 
heroic: Benjamin Robert Haydon (1785-1846). — 224. Norman Arch: The 
grand entrance and exit to the Norwich Cathedral, west side. — 225. Snap : 
The Snap-Dragon of Norwich is the Tarasque of the south of France, and 
the Tarasca of Corpus day in Spain. It represents a Dragon or monster 
with hideous jaws, supported by men concealed, all but their legs, within its 
capacious belly, and carried about in civic processions prior to the year 1835 ; 
even now it is seen on Guy Fawkes’ day, the 5th of November. — Whiffler: 
An official character of the old Norwich Corporation, strangely uniformed 
and accoutred, who headed the annual procession on Guildhall day, flourish- 
ing a sword in a marvellous manner. All this was abolished on the passage 
of the Municipal Reform Act in 1835. As a consequence, says a contem- 
poraneous writer, “ the Aldermen left off wearing their scarlet gowns, Snap 
was laid up on a shelf in the ‘Sword Room’ in the Guildhall, and the 
Whiffler s no longer danced at the head of the procession in their picturesque 
costume. It was a pretty sight, and their skill in flourishing their short 
swords was marvellous to behold.” See Romany Rye, pp. 349-50. — Billy 
Blind and Owlenglass (Till Eulenspiegel) : See Bibliography . — 228. Brandt 
and Struensee : For High-Treason in Denmark, 1772. See Celebrated Trials, 
iv., p. 465 ; and for Richard Patch (“ yeoman Patch ”), 1805, vol. v., p. 584. 
— 229. Lord Byron : The remains of the poet lay in state from Friday 
9th July, 1824, in Sir Edward Knatchbull’s house, Great George Street, to 
Monday the 12th when they were conveyed to Hucknall-Torkard in Not- 
tinghamshire. On that day (12th July) Borrow witnessed the procession 
as described in the text. — 233. Cardan’s Receipt: Torlough ( i.e ., Charles) 
O’Carolan, the celebrated Irish harper and bard, was born at Nobber, Co. 
Meath, in 1670, and died in 1738. See Alfred Webb’s Compendium of 


motes. 


565 


Irish Biography , Dublin, 1878, p. 372; J. C. Walker’s Irish Bards , 1786, 
App., pp. 86-87, and Diet, of Nat. Biog., xli., p. 343. The “ Receipt ” in Irish 
is in Walker, and at the end of Vallancey’s Irish Grammar, second ed 
Dublin, 1781. 1 Here is the translation given in Walker 

“ When by sickness or sorrow assail’d, 

To the mansion of Stafford I hie’d 

His advice or his cordial ne’er fail’d 
To relieve me — nor e’er was denied. 

“ At midnight our glasses went round, 

In the morning a cup he would send ; 

By the force of his wit he has found 
That my life did on drinking depend. 

“ With the spirit of Whiskey inspir’d, 

By my Harp e’en the pow’r is confess’d ; 

’Tis then that my genius is fir’d, 

’Tis then I sing sweetest and best. 

“Ye friends and ye neighbours draw near, 

Attend to the close of my song ; 

Remember, if life you hold dear, 

That drinking your life will prolong.” 

Curiously enough among the subscribers to the Romantic Ballads , Norwich, 
1826, we find these names; (p. 185) “ F. Arden, Esq., London, five copies,” 
“T. G. O’Donnahoo, Esq., London, five copies;” (p. 187) “Mr. J. Turner, 
London ”. 

Page 244. The Review: The Review actually ceased January, 1825, 
with its sixth number. — 268. Laham : In Heb. bread is Uhem ; but our 
author probably wrote it by sound. Z'hats is the acc. of hats , the Arm. for 
bread ; for as Borrow’s source, old Villotte (1714), says : “ Accusativus pree- 
hgit nominativo literam z — 270 and 286. Mesroub, read Miesroh , 
who, about a.d. 450 introduced the Armenian alphabet. 271. Sea in Arm. 
is dzow. See Romany Rye, p. 356 — 281. Adeldnte (Span.) : Come in. — 281. 
Bueno (Span.) : Good. This sound of the word bueno, heard in 1825 from 
the Jew Manasseh, was brought to Borrow’s memory in 1836 when he met 
the Jew Abarbanel on the roads in Spain. See B. in S., p. 65, sm. ed.— 
282. Una vez, etc. (Span.) : On one occasion when he was intoxicated.— 282. 
Goyim (Heb.) : Nations, Gentiles. — 282. Lasan akhades, read Ldshon 
haqqddesh : Sacred language, i.e., Hebrew. — 282. Janin : Wine in Heb. is 
vdyin (not ydnin ), but our author quoted correctly from the Dialoghi di 
Amore composti per Leone Medico, Vinegia, 1541, and the Span. ed. (which 
I use) : Los Dialogos de Amor de mestre Leon Abarbanel medico y Filosofo 
excelente, Venetia, 1568, sm. 4to (Bodleian). The passage is: “And he 
(Noah), after the flood, was called Janus on account of his invention of wine, 
for Janin in Hebrew signifies wine, and he is represented with two faces 

1 Beginning — 

“ Mas tinn no sldn atkarlaigheas fiin. 

Do ghluais me trd, agus bfhtirde me. 

Air cudirt an Sedin le ideal dfhdghail , 

“An Stafartach salmh, nach gndth gan chiill.'’ 


566 


NOTES. 


turned in opposite directions, because he saw before the flood and after it 1 
G. B. always writes Abarhmel for Abarbanel. His true name was Leo 
Abrabanel. — 282. Janinoso (Judaeo-Span.) meaning vinosus, intoxicated.— 
283. Epicouraiyim : Christians, as below, the “ Epicureans,” for so the 
rabbis of the East call us in the West — properly, “ unbelievers But 
Borrow’s form is not found in Buxtorf (1869) — read Epikurosin 

and (pop.) Epikurin. — 285. Sephardim : Spanish arM Portuguese Jews, as the 
Ashkenazim are the German Jews. — 290 to 301. I am at ... : Green- 
wich, Blackheath and Shooter’s Hill (301). — 304. Colonel B. . . : Col. 

Blood. See Celebrated Trials , vol. ii. , pp. 248-354 : “ Thomas Blood, gener- 
ally called Colonel Blood, who stole the crown from the Tower of London, 
1671 ”. — 317, Got fare to ... , read Amesbury, Wilts. — 323. City of 
the Spire: Salisbury. — 325. From . . . , read Bristol. — 330. Stranger: 
Could not be William Beckford (1759-1844) of Fonthill Park, three miles 
from Hinton, a dozen or fifteen miles from Salisbury. Besides the place 
was sold in 1822 and George Mortimer occupied it in 1825. Borrow had 
been walking five days in a N.W. direction from Salisbury, and all his 
narrative harmonises with the places and dates that bring him to Horn- 
castle in August, 1825. — 362. Abedariums, read abecedariums. — 363. 
Flaming Tinman : He is also called by Borrow, Blazing Tinman, Flying 
Tinker, Blazing Bosville or Boswell, and finally Anselo Herne, his true 
clan-name. — 367. Ten years ago, i.e.> thirteen, when he was at Tam- 
worth in April or May, 1812. — 377. The Romany chi, etc. : See p. 387 
for the translation. — 379. Answer to the gillie : The Rommany churl and 
the Rommany girl love thieving and spaeing and lying and everything but 
honesty and truth. — 390. Peth yw, etc. (W.) : What is that lying there on the 
ground? Yn wirionedd, in truth, surely. — 390. Gwenwyn: Poison! Poison! 
the lad has been poisoned ! - 394. Hanged the mayor : The suppressed 
name of the Welshman and the whole account of the affair is given in Wild 
Wales , p. 7 (chapter iii). — 404. Bardd Cwsg: The Sleeping Bard, by 
Ellis Wynn. See Bibliog. — 421. Merddin Wyllt ( Myrddin ): i.e., Wild 
Merlin, called the Wizard. — 423. Found written : See Moll Flanders 
by Defoe, p. 188, ed. 1722 : “ Oh ! what a felicity is it to mankind,” said I, 
“ that they cannot see into the hearts of one another ! ” I have carefully 
re-read the whole volume of Moll Flanders , and find no such passages as 
those referred to here, save the one above. Hence, we may justly infer 
that Borrow quoted the spirit , rather than the words, of his author. See 
Romany Rye , pp. 305-6. — 431. Catraeth, read Cattraeth. The reference is to 
Aneurin’s book, the Gododin , or Battle of Cattraeth. See Bibliog. — 432. 
Fish or flesh: See Borrow’s Targum , St. Petersb., 1835, p. 76, under the 
“ History of Taliesin,” ending: — 

“ I saw the end with horror 
Of Sodom and Gomorrah ! 

And with this very eye 
Have seen the [Trinity] ; 

I till the judgment day 
Upon the earth shall stray : 

None knows for certainty 
Whether fish or flesh I be." 

1 ” El qual (N06) despues del diluuio, por su inuencion del uino, fue lhamado 
Iano, porque Ianin en ebraico quiere dezir uino, y lo pintan con dos caras boltadas, 
porque tuuo uista antes del diluuio y despues ” (Foja 71, verso). 


NOTES. 


567 


The original Welsh of the “ Hanes Taliesin” is in the Gorchestion Beirdd 
Cymru, 1773 — Bibliog. at the end of Romany Rye. — 432. Take this : This 
Bible, with Peter Williams’ name in it, was sold in London in 1886 out of 
Geo. Borrow’s collection. — 443. Mumpers’ Dingle : Near Willenhall, Staf- 
ordshire. The place is properly Moniber or Mourner Lane , and is now occupied 
by the “ Monmer Lane Ironworks,” hence totally obliterated. — 444. Volundr 
( Volundr ) : The Wayland Smith of Northern legends. See in the Bibliog. 
under “ Wayland Smith,” and Mallet, p. 570. — 456. Ingeborg : The lines 
are from the Romantic Ballads of 1826, p. 58, entitled the “ Heroes of 
Dovrefeld. From the old Danish.” — 456. “As I was jawing:” Text and 
translation of the whole eight lines are found on pp. 182-83 of the Lavo-Lil, 
1874 : — 

As I to the town was going one day 
My Roman lass I met by the way. 

The MS. is somewhat different — “ Rommany ” instead of Roman, and the 
last line, “ If you will share my lot with me ”. — 469. The man in black : 
This priest seems to have been a Fraser of Lovat. See Romany Rye, 
p. 25, and “Arbuthnot” in the Bibliog. — 481. Armenian: It must be 
remembered that Borrow’s Armenian was limited to the Introduction, 
Grammar and Lat.-Arm. Diet, of the Jesuit Joseph Villotte, 1714, fol., 
which he picked up at Norwich in 1822-23 as he tells us on p. 175, 
and Romanp Rye, p. 92. Hence all his examples are taken from that 
book — mi, one ; yergou, two ; yerek, three, and those in Romany Rye. — 
482. Buona sera (It.): Good evening. — 482. Per far visita, etc.: To pay 
your lordship a call, that is my motive.— 486. Che io non, etc., read ch ’ 
io , etc.: That I do not believe at all. — 488. Addio : Farewell.— 497. Pulci: 
See the Bibliog. This version is rather free and local. Here is the original 
(canto xviii., f. 97, ed. 1546) : — 

Rispose allhor Margutte : “A dirtel tosto, 

Io non credo piu al nero ch ’ a Vazzurro, 

Ma nel cappone, o lesso, 0 , vuogli, arrosto, 

E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro, 

Nella cervogia, e, quando io n'ho, nel mosto, 

E molto piu nelV aspro che il mangurro, 

Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino ho fede, 

E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede .” 

503. O Cavaliere, etc. : Oh, Sir Walter, ye have wrought much in behalf of 
the Holy See! — 504. Poveri frati : Poor friars! — 508. One fellow I met: 
See the postillion’s story on pp. 536-48. — 513. Master in Arm. is d'yer ; 
of a master, d'yearn; pi., d'yearh . — 515. Koul Adonai, read Kbl A. The 
next quotation is from part of verse 4 of the xxixth Psalm, which he gives 
according to the prayer-book version. 


LIST OF GYPSY WORDS IN LAVENGRO 


Adrey, in. 

Ambrol, pear. 

Ande, in, into. 

Andre, in, within. 

Angar, charcoal, coals. 

Apopli, again. 

Aukko, here is. 

Ava, yes. 

Avali, yes. 

Avella, comes, is coming. 

Bard, large, big. 

Bawlor, swine. 

Bebee (aunt), grandmother. 

Bengui, devil. 

Bitchadey, pi. sent. 

Bitchadey pawdel (p. 300), an error 
for bitchado pawdel, sing. 

Boro, great. 

Borodromengro, highwayman. 

Boro foros, London. 

Cafi, horse-shoe nail. 

Cana, when. 

Caulor, shillings. 

Chabe, pi. of 

Chabo, child, lad, Gypsy. 

Chachipen, truth. 

Chal, lad, Gypsy. 

Chal Devlehi go with God, farewell. 
Chavd, i.q. chabo. 

Chi, girl, lass, Gypsy. 

Chinomescro, chisel. 

Chipes, pi. tongues. 

Chive, to throw ; pass (bad money). 
Chivios, he or it is cast. 

Chong, hill. 

Chong gav, Norwich. 

Churi, knife. 

Coor, to strike, hammer. 
Cooromengro, boxer. 

Covantza, anvil. 

Dearginni (Hung. G.), it thunders. 
Dinelo, a fool, silly. 

Divvus, day. 

Dloovu, money (for lovo). 


Dook, to bewitch, to spirit away. 
Dook, spirit, soul, divining spirit, 
demon, ghost. 

Dosta, enough. 

Dovey odoi, that there, up yonder. 
Drab, herb, poison. 

Drab, to poison. 

Drom, road, way. 

Drow (often pi.), drugs; poison. 

Dui, two. 

Dukker/ 7 ? (the in is Eng. “ing”), 
any one’s fortune, or fortunes, fate, 
fortune-telling. 

Dukker/n dook, the fortune-telling 
or divining spirit or demon. 
Dukkeripen, fortune-telling. 

Duvel, God. 

Duvelskoe, divine. 

Engro (mere ending), Borrovian for 
“ master,” “ fellow,” “ chap ”, 
Foros, city, town. 

Gav, village, town. 

Gillie, song, ditty. 

Gorgio, non-gypsy, stranger, some- 
body, police. G. avella, some one 
is coming. G. shunella, some one 
is listening. G.’s welling, the police 
are about. 

Gorgious, adj. formed from gorgio. 
Grandbebee, see bebee. 

Grondinni ( Roumanian G.), it hails. 
Gry, horse, pony. 

Harkomescro, tinker. 

Hinjiri, executioner. 

Hir mi Devlis, by my G . 

Hokkeripen, falsehood. 

Jaw, to go. Jaw-ing, going. 

Jib, tongue, language. 

Juggal, dog. 

Juwa, woman. 


Kauley, f. of 
Kaulo, black, dark. 

(568) 


GYPSY LIST. 


569 


Kaulomescro, blacksmith. 

Kaured, stole. 

Kekaubi, kettle. 

Ker, house. 

Kosko, good. 

Krai or Krallis, king. 

Lachipen, honesty. 

Lavengro, “ word-master,” “ philo- 
logist ”. 

Leste, him. 

Lil, book. 

Loovu, coin, money. 

Lundra, London. 

Luripen, theft, robbery. 

Mailla, donkey. 

Manricli, cake. 

Manro, bread. 

Manus, man. 

Marel (read merel), dies. 

Men, we. 

Mensar (read mensa ), with us. 

Miro, my. 

Morro, bread. 

Muchtar, tool-box. 

Nashkado, lost, hanged. 

Nashky, gallows. 

O, the. 

Odoi, there ; dovey o., yonder. 

Pa, over, for. 

Pal, brother, friend, mate. 

Palor, brothers. 

Parraco, I thank. 

Pawdel, on the other side, across; 

bitchadey p., transported. 

Pen, to ooy. t telL; penning, telling. 
■+ Peshota, pi. bellows*. 

Petul, horse-shoe. 

Petulengro, smith. 

Pindro, hoof, foot. 

Pios, health (in toasting). 

Plaistra, pincers. 

Plastramengro, runner, detective. 
Poknees, magistrate. 

Praia ( voc .). brother. 

- Pudamengro, blower, bellows. 

Purd, old, ancient. 

Puv, earth, ground. 

Ran, stick, cane. 


Rati, blood, stock. 

Rikkenf, f. of 
Rikkend, pretty, fine. 

Rin, file. 

Rom, husband ; Gypsy. 

Roman, Borrovian for Gypsy. 
Romaneskoenaes, in Gypsy fashion. 
Romanly (Bor.), in Gypsy, G.-like. 
Romano, Gypsy. 

Rome and dree (Rom andre ?) Gypsy 
at heart. 

Romf, wife. 

Rommanis, in Gypsy. 

Rommany, Gypsy. 

Rommany Chal, Eng. Gypsy. 
Rommany Chi, f. Eng. Gypsy-girl. 
Rovel, weeps. 

Rye, gentleman ; farming r., farmer. 
Sap, snake. 

Sapengro, snake-catcher. 

Sastra, iron. 

Sastramescro, worker in iron, smith. 
Scoppelo, ninny. 

Sherengro, head man. 

Shoon, to hear, to listen. 

Shukaro, hammer. 

Shunella, is listening. 

Si, is, are. 

Sore, all (who). 

Ta, and. 

Tacho rommanis, faithful wife. 

Tan, tent. 

Tasaulor (ta-sorlo), to-morrow. 
Tatchipen, truth. 

Tawno Chickno, “Shorty”. 

Tu, thy. 

Tute, thee. 

Vagescoe chipes, tongues of fire. 
Villaminni (Hung. G.), it lightens. 

Wafodo, bad, false. 

Welling (corruption of avella), com- 
ing. G.’s welling, “ the hawks are 
abroad ”. 

Wesh, forest. 

Yag, fire. 

Yeck, one. 

Zigatf (Slavic), Gypsy. 

Zingaro (Italian), Gypsy. 

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